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2051878 


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88in 


DOCTOR  ZAY 


ELIZABETH   STUART   PHELPS 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  GATES  AJAR,"  "  THE   STORT  OF   AVIS,"  "  THE   SttEJfT  PARTNER," 
"  FRIENDS  :    A  DUET,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


a 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

New  York:    11    East  Seventeenth   Street 

(Cfte  fiitersfoe  press,  <JTamiri&ee 

1882 


Copyright,  1882, 
By  ELIZABETH   STUART  PIIELPS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge : 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Houghton  &  Co 


STACK  ANNEX 

PS 


J&fcx, 
1823, 

DOOTOE  ZAT. 


I. 

"  To  my  nephew,  Waldo  Yorke,  of  Beacon 
Street,  Boston,  Massachusetts,  all  such  properties 
of  mine  as  are  vested  in  shipping,  timber,  or  lum 
ber,  in  the  town  of  Sherman,  in  this  State." 

This  was  vague,  but  the  more  stimulating. 
What  can  compare  with  the  bewitchment  of  ar 
duous  pursuit  for  uncertain  privilege  ?  There  is 
an  Orphean  power  well  known  to  reside  in  testa 
mentary  documents,  whereby  the  most  insignifi 
cant  legacy  will  draw  the  most  imposing  fortune 
to  dance  attendance  upon  its  possession.  But  it 
is  doubtful  if  Waldo  Yorke,  of  Beacon  Street, 
Boston,  Massachusetts,  would  have  found  himself 
inspired  to  a  personal  investigation  of  his  departed 
relative's  kind  intentions  concerning  himself,  but 
"or  a  certain  constitutional  sensitiveness  to  this 
llurement  attending  the  pursuit  of  unknown  re- 
•ilts. 


6  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Send  a  lawyer,  Waldo."  His  mother  had 
said  this  over  the  coffee  for  which  she  delicately 
prescribed  the  proper  Yorke  admixture  from  the 
Sevres  creamer.  She  spoke  with  the  slightly 
peremptory  accent  which  certain  mothers  retain, 
either  from  force  of  habit  or  from  intrinsic  delight 
in  the  sound,  long  after  the  expectation  of  filial 
submission  has  become  a  myth  of  the  Golden  Age. 
Mrs.  Yorke  was  a  handsome  woman,  who  wore 
point  appliquS.  She  was  lame. 

Her  son  had  reminded  her  that  in  sending 
Waldo  Yorke  he  really  was  not  far  from  doing  the 
precise,  if  remarkable,  thing  of  which  she  spoke. 

"  Quite  true,"  said  the  lady.  "  I  had  forgotten. 
Your  having  a  profession  so  seldom  occurs  to  one, 
Waldo.  And  cousin  Don  would  have  been  glad 
to  go,  now  the  season  is  over  at  the  Club.  He 
has  nothing  else  to  do." 

"  I  am  somewhat  overborne  with  that  calamity 
myself,  mother,"  the  young  man  had  said,  color 
ing  slightly.  "  I  don't  think  we  will  discuss  the 
thing;  I  am  going  to  hunt  up  Uncle  Aid's  legacy." 

Mrs.  Yorke  had  not  discussed  the  thing.  Al 
though  not  even  indulgently  talked  of  as  "  rising  " 
in  his  profession,  this  idle,  strong-limbed,  restless 
son  of  hers  had  incisive  preferences,  with  which 
she  was  familiar,  as  well  as  with  his  somewhat 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  7 

sturdy  methods  of  executing  them.  And  although 
they  had  only  each  other  to  be  "  beholden  to  "  in 
all  the  world,  —  that  is  to  say,  in  Beacon  Street, 
—  they  were  accustomed  to  yield  one  another  the 
large  liberty  of  assured  affection.  A  summer  of 
separation  was  to  be  expected,  when  one  was  the 
lame  old  mother  of  a  nervous  young  man.  Mrs. 
Yorke  had  kissed  her  son  good-by  royally,  and 
here  he  was. 

Here  he  was,  lazily  riding  at  the  laziest  hour  of 
the  sleepy  noon,  —  he  and  the  sensitive  horse  he 
had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  in  Bangor  for  the 
trip.  He  had  been  alone  with  the  pony  and  his 
own  thoughts,  through  the  magnificent  Maine 
wilderness,  for  now  two  long,  memorable  days. 
An  older  traveler  than  young  Yorke  would  have 
found  them  valuable  days.  He  had  chosen  the 
]and  route,  seventy-two  miles  from  Bangor.  He 
had  a  certain  kind  of  thirst  for  solitude,  which 
comes  only  to  the  city  born  and  bred  ;  most  keenly 
to  the  young,  and  most  passionately  to  the  over 
tasked.  \\^,ldo  Yorke  had  never  been  overtasked 
>.» 

in  his  life.  "*  He  leaned  to  the  splendors  through 
which  he  journeyed,  enthusiastically,  but  criticised 
Nature,  like  an  amateur,  while  he  drank. 

He  had  chosen  the  land  route  partly,  perhaps, 
in  deference  to  faint  associations  with  wild  tales 


8  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

of  it,  told  him  years  ago  by  that  myth  of  a  dead 
uncle,  in  course  of  the  only  appearance  he  ever 
made  in  Beacon  Street,  —  Uncle  Jed,  whom  his 
mother,  somehow,  never  urged  the  child's  going 
to  visit,  while  never  distinctly  discountenancing 
it,  either.  Poor  Uncle  Jed  was  a  good  man,  but 
had  never  had  papa's  advantages,  my  son.  But 
my  son  had  conceived  a  passing  chivalrous  fancy 
for  an  uncle  at  a  disadvantage,  and  remembered 
sitting  in  his  lap,  and  stroking  his  grizzled  cheek 
with  the  soft  pink  palm  of  first  one  little  hand, 
and  then  the  other,  and  asking  him  why  he  had 
n't  any  little  boys,  and  if  God  left  them  in  heaven, 
or  forgot  to  send  them  down.  Poor  Uncle  Jed 
was  a  bachelor,  as  well  as  a  myth. 

So  this  was  the  wilderness  where  the  good  old 
myth  had  lived,  loved  —  did  he  ever  love  ?  his 
nephew  wondered.  Lived,  loved,  died.  No : 
lived,  loved,  got  rich,  and  died ;  or  lived,  got  rich, 
and  died,  as  you  choose  to  put  it.  What  a  place 
to  live  and  die'  in  !  Or  to  get  rich  in.  Or  to 
love  in,  either,  for  that  matter. 

The  young  man  leaned  against  the  cushions  of 
the  covered  buggy,  which  seemed  to  arouse  as 
much  bewildered  effort  of  the  perceptive  faculties 
in  the  stray  natives  whom  he  met  as  if  it  had  been 
a  covered  mill-pond,  and  indulged  in  that  hazy 


DOCTOR  ZAY."  9 

reverie  which  is  possible  only  to  ease  and  youth. 
What  were  his  visions  ?  What  are  the  thoughts 
of  a  distinguished-looking  young  man,  with  one 
foot  swinging  for  very  luxury  of  idleness  over  the 
buggy's  edge  against  the  step,  the  reins  thrown 
across  one  muscular  arm,  and  both  gloved  hands 
clasped  behind  a  rather  well-shaped  head.  A 
young  man  with  well-born  eyes,  and  well-bred 
mouth ;  and  he  scorns  to  stoop  to  vices  who  car 
ries  just  such  a  fashion  of  the  nostril  and  the  chin. 
The  route  that  young  Yorke  had  chosen  led 
him  into  the  unparalleled  deserts  and  glories  of 
the  wild  Maine  coast.  Sudden  reserves  and  al 
lurements  of  horizon  succeeded  each  other.  They 
were  finely-contrasted,  like  the  moods  of  a  woman 
as  strong  as  she  is  sweet,  and  as  sincere  as  she  is 
either.  Forest  and  sea  vied  to  win  his  fancy.  At 
the  turning  of  a  rein  he  plunged  into  an  impenetra 
ble  green  solitude.  He  became,  perforce,  a  wor 
shiper  in  Nature's  cathedrals.  Arch  beyond  arch, 
they  lifted  stately  heads.  Density  within  density, 
hung  shadows  in  which  it  seemed  no  midday  light 
could  see  to  find  a  target.  Welcome  chills  came 
from  these  shadows  and  struck  upon  the  feverish 
cheek.  Across  them  fled  dry,  unrecognized  per 
fumes,  clean  and  fine.  Above,  the  dome  of  ether 
quivered  with  the  faint,  uncertain  motion  of  hot 


10  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

air  upon  a  summer  noon.  Drops  of  light  fell 
through,  upon  the  neutral-tinted  shade  that  broke 
the  sienna  color  of  the  winding  road.  As  far  as 
eye  could  see,  the  forest  locked  mighty  arms  be 
fore  the  traveler,  as  if  to  hold  him  to  its  heart  for 
ever. 

Then  swiftly  at  the  tripping  of  a  cypress,  at 
the  surrender  of  an  oak,  at  the  fleeing  of  a  rank 
of  pines,  at  the  shaking  of  a  ghostly  beard  of 
moss,  behold  I  the  solemn  barricade  has  given 
way.  You  have  but  turned  a  corner,  yet  the  for 
est  lets  you  go  angrily,  desperately,  and  yields 
you  to  the  sea. 

Now  the  straight  noon  sunshine  palpitates  be 
fore,  behind,  about  you.  The  road  sweeps,  yellow 
and  lonely,  past  a  dreary  little  hut,  a  solitary 
farm.  The  ruts  worn  by  the  daily  stage,  passed 
an  hour  before  you,  begin  to  grow  distinct  in  the 
white  heat.  Rocks  loom,  a  mass  of  wealthy  out 
line  against  unbroken  sky,  and  curved  and  curious 
beaches  kneel  to  wet  their  lonely  foreheads  in  the 
sea. 

Your  cathedral  has  turned  you  out-of-doors  ut 
terly.  Galleries-  of  wonder  beckon  you  on.  Ir 
regular  sculpture  starts,  half-moulded,  from  the 
wild,  gray  cliffs.  Sketches  which  Nature  seems 
to  have  begun,  but  never  cared  to  finish,  unfold 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  11 

before  you,  vast,  imperfectly  interpreted,  evanes 
cent.  Music,  sweet  from  the  now  unseen  birds 
in  the  deserted  forest,  sad  from  the  waves  upon 
the  untrodden  beaches,  pulsates  through  the  vivid 
air.  It  seems  to  the  rider  that  the  butterflies 
keep  time  to  it ;  that  the  daisies  in  the  gentle 
fields  are  nodding  to  it.  Motionless  cattle  in  the 
pastures,  stray,  solitary  children  on  the  fences, 
idle  smoke  from  desolate  chimneys,  pass  him  by 
rhythmically.  His  thoughts,  still  busy  with  the 
forest,  receive  from  all  these  things  little  else  than 
a  vague  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  life  and 
light. 

Life  and  light !  The  words  have  a  familiar  and 
a  solemn  sound. 

Are  they  snatches  from  some  forgotten  senti 
ment  of  Holy  Writ  ?  John,  perhaps  ?  John,  the 
golden-lipped,  happy-hearted  young  enthusiast? 
What  a  poet  that  fisherman  was  !  No  wonder 
that  modern  dispute  centres  battling  about  the 
authenticity  of  the  Fourth  Gospel.  Life  and 
light !  In  all  the  universe,  those  only  were  the 
two  words  that  could  interpret  the  summer-noon 
meaning  of  this  virgin  State  of  Maine. 

In  all  the  universe  — 

Nonsense ! 

Yorke  remembered  that   he  was   hungry,    and 


12  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

would  have  his  dinner.  In  all  the  universe,  — 
what  then  ?  Heaven  knows !  It  was  some  mad 
fancy  about  womanhood,  or  youth,  —  love,  per 
haps,  if  the  truth  must  out ;  how  a  woman  some 
times  came  to  a  man's  life  —  he  had  heard  of  such 
women  —  suddenly,  thoroughly,  as  upon  the  re 
serve  of  the  forest  had  flashed  the  glory  of  the  sea. 
Meanwhile,  a  man  must  have  his  dinner  ;  a  matter 
not  to  be  ignored  in  dealing  with  ideal  wilderness 
or  ideal  woman.  He  pulled  the  rein  smartly  over 
the  nervous  pony,  reflecting,  with  the  hardened 
cynicism  of  a  bachelor  of  twenty-eight,  that  he 
would  like  to  see  the  woman  who  would  be  Life 
and  Light  to  him  !  I  think,  though,  if  we  stop 
to  look  at  it,  that  the  young  fellow  preserved,  after 
all,  for  his  sacred  metaphor  something  of  the  rever 
ence  which  is  native  to  all  delicate  natures ;  and 
that  in  the  innermost  of  all  consciousness,  which 
we  hide  even  from  ourselves,  the  words  held  under 
covert  of  a  sneer  the  fugitive  of  a  prayer. 

With  the  fall  from  heaven  to  earth,  discovering 
that  he  was  hungry,  the  young  man  cherished  a 
mild  suspicion  that  he  had  strayed  a  little  out  of 
his  way.  Surely,  the  last  reduced  but  hopeful 
sign-board  had  explicitly  "  arisen  to  explain  "  that 
it  was  six  miles  and  a  half  to  the  town  of  Sher 
man.  If  he  had  traveled  six  miles  and  a  half  he 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  13 

had  traveled  ten  since  then,  and  of  other  guide- 
boards,  those  ignesfatui  in  which  he  confided  with 
the  touching  faith  of  youth  and  inexperience,  there 
were  none  to  be  seen.  Two,  indeed,  he  had 
passed,  valorously  guarding  a  cart-path,  but  wind, 
weather,  or  fate  had  long  since  decapitated  them. 
Over  against  their  corpses  one  patient  fellow 
stood  on  duty  in  a  whortleberry  thicket,  for  what 
concrete  or  abstract  purpose  no  mortal  could 
divine,  ftdth  his  head,  from  which  all  recognizable 
features  were  successfully  washed  away,  held  rak- 
ishly  under  his  arm.  Another,  apparently  a 
drunken,  disorderly  officer,  seemed  to  have  gone 
upon  a  spree,  and  tumbled  face-down  into  a  brook. 
But  neither  of  these  sources  of  Maine  enlighten 
ment  had  directed  the  dense  Massachusetts  mind 
to  the  town  of  Sherman. 

Bringing  the  entire  force  of  the  Massachusetts 
mind  now  to  bear  upon  the  non-appearance  of  any 
visible  means  of  dining,  a  process  in  which  the 
Maine  pony  showed  a  sympathy  above  all  pro 
vincialism,  the  traveler  accosted  the  first  native  he 
happened  to  meet,  and  something  like  the  follow 
ing  conversation  took  place  :  — 

TorTce :  "  Can  you  tell  me  how  far  it  is  to 
Sherman,  sir  ?  " 

Native:  "Hey?" 


14  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

Yorke  :  "  Would  you  oblige  me  by  saying  bow 
near  I  am  to  the  town  of  Sherman  ?  " 

Native,  interrogatively :  "  Sherman  ?  " 

Yorke,  decidedly  :  "  Yes  ;  Sherman." 

Native,  reflectively  :  "  Sherm-an." 

A  pause. 

"Travelin'  fur?" 

"  From  Bangor  to  Sherman." 

"  Oh !  " 

"  I  fear  I  have  got  out  of  my  way.  I  hope  you 
can  direct  me." 

"  Wall.     You  said  Sherman  ?  " 

Yorke,,  emphatically :  "  I  certainly  did  !  " 

Native,  cheerfully :  "  Wall.  If  it 's  Sherman 
you  're  goin'  fur,  I  sh'd  ventur'  it  might  be  a 
matter  of  eight  mile  —  to  Sherman.  Hancock's 
nigher.  So  's  Cherrytowii." 

Yorke,  explosively  :"  But  I  do  not  wish  to  visit 
Hancock  or  Cherrytown  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't.     Wall." 

Native's  wife,  coming  to  the  door,  and  standing 
with  heavy  hand  raised,  gaunt  forefinger  stretch 
ing  down  the  road:  "That's  the  way  to  Sher 
man  :  down  that  there  gully,  and  take  your  second 
left  and  your  fust  right,  and  then  roller  the  wind. 
But  it  ain't  no  eight  mile." 

Yorke,  lost   in  thinking   how  much  she  looks 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  15 

like  a  Maine  sign-post :  "  Thank  you,  madam. 
How  far  do  you  call  it  to  Sherman  ?  " 

"  It  ain't  a  peg  over  six,  —  Sherman  ain't." 

Native's  boy,  pushing  between  his  parents,  and 
appearing  vivaciously  in  the  foreground  :  "  It 's 
three  mile  'n'  a  half,  mister  !  And  you  don't  take 
your  second  left.  You  jest  f oiler  your  nose,  an' 
you  '11  make  it.  Folks  hain't  been  thar  sence  the 
old  hoss  died.  I  went  one  winter.  I  belong  to 
the  Sherman  Brass  Band." 

"It's  true,"  said  the  woman,  apologetically, 
"  me  and  Mr.  Bailey  don't  get  to  Sherman  very 
often.  But  Bob,  —  he  don't  know  a  mile  from  a 
close-pin." 

A  prolonged  pause. 

"  Is  there  a  hotel  in  this  —  this  metropolis  ?  " 
asked  Yorke,  looking  vaguely  about  the  beautiful 
wilderness. 

"  Sir  ?  " 

"  Is  there  a  tavern  in  this  village?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"Do  you  ever  accommodate  hungry  travelers 
with  a  dinner  in  your  own  family  ?  " 

"  Wall,  no  ;  we  never  hev.  They  mostly  go  to 
Nahum  Smithses." 

"  Can  I  get  anything  to  eat,  in  this  desert,  of 
Mr.  Smith  or  any  other  citizen  of  your  acquaint 
ance  ?  " 


16  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  Wall,  mebbe  you  might.  Might  ask.  Nahum 
Smith  is  a  gentleman  as  puts  up." 

Yorke,  reviving  :  "A  gentleman  that  puts  up  ? 
That  sounds  hopeful.  How  far  is  it  to  this  gen 
tleman's  ?  " 

Native  :  "  Two  miles. 

Native's  wife  :  "  It 's  two  'n'  a  quarter." 

Native's  boy,  disrespectfully  and  musically : 
"  'T  ain't  a  mi-i-ile  !  " 

Yorke  turned  away  with  such  gratitude  towards 
this  enlightened  family  as  he  could  muster  into 
expression,  and  set  offt  grimly  in  search  of  the 
gentleman  that  put  up. 

The  woman  ran  after  him  for  some  distance 
through  the  dusty,  blazing?  blinding  noon.  He 
reined  up,  and  she  called  kindly,  gesticulating 
with  her  lean  arms,  "  If  you  come  acrost  a  woman 
ridin'  in  a  little  frisky  wagin  with  an  amberel 
atop,  just  you  ask  her.  She  '11  know  !  " 

It  was  one  of  those  coincidences  which  make, 
according  to  one's  temperament,  either  the  poetry 
or  the  superstition  of  life,  that  young  Yorke,  in 
the  course  of  twenty  minutes'  savage  and  unsuc 
cessful  pursuit  of  the  gentleman  that  put  up,  com 
ing  sharply  to  the  top  of  a  glaring  hill,  saw  at  the 
foot  of  it,  dimly  through  the  dust,  a  sight  as  for 
eign  to  the  Maine  wilderness  as  a  sleigh  to  Florida 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  17 

or  a  barouche  to  Sahara.  It  was  a  pony  phaeton. 
It  stood  before  a  gray  old  farm-house  door,  and 
the  clean-cut,  slender  gray  mare  who  drew  it  was 
tied  to  the  crumbling  fence.  It  was  a  basket 
phaeton,  with  a  movable  top  of  a  buff  color,  —  a 
lady's  phaeton,  evidently. 

Yorke  was  as  yet  too  inexperienced  a  traveler 
across  country  to  know  that  in  three  cases  out  of 
five  it  is  from  a  woman  one  will  get  most  accurate 
geographical  directions.  He  might  have  passed 
the  pony  phaeton  with  scarcely  a  serious  remem 
brance  of  the  advice  he  had  received,  but  just  be 
fore  he  reached  the  farm-house  the  owner  of  the 
carriage  came  suddenly  out. 

She  came  suddenly  out  and  down  the  grass- 
grown  walk,  with  the  nervous  step  natural  to  a 
person  in  habitual  haste ;  but  a  healthy  step,  even 
and  springing.  Yorke  noticed  as  much  as  this  in 
the  instant  that  he  balanced  in  his  mind  the  ad 
visability  of  addressing  the  lady. 

For  it  was  unmistakably,  a  lady. 

The  young  man  —  being  a  young  man  —  took 
in  with  subtle  swiftness  a  sense  of  her  youth,  for 
she  was  young  ;  of  her  motions,  .which  were  lithe. 
Of  her  face  his  impressions  were  hazy.  It  might 
have  been  fine,  or  not.  He  seldom  suffered  him 
self  to  acquire  an  opinion  of  a  woman's  face  at 


18  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

first  sight ;  lie  had  so  often  learned  to  hold  such 
impressions  as  frauds  on  his  intelligence.  Her 
dress,  he  thought,  was  blue,  or  black,  or  blue- 
black,  or  black-and-blue.  What  did  it  matter  ? 
She  was  already  escaping  him,  and  with  her,  ap 
parently,  his  only  mortal  hope  of  dinner.  What 
superhuman  power  could  do  for  a  man  even  in  the 
Maine  wilderness  he  would  not  dogmatically  de 
cide,  but  his  confidence  in  human  assistance  was 
at  that  faint  ebb  produced  by  prospective  starva 
tion  ;  and  Mr.  Nahum  Smith,  or  any  other  gentle 
man  that  put  up,  he  had  begun  to  locate  with 
other  interesting  and  amusing  myths  with  which 
his  education  had  made  him  familiar. 

The  young  lady  had  untied  her  horse  (with  the 
quickness  of  a  practiced  driver),  had  swept  into 
the  phaeton,  had  gathered  the  reins,  and  was  off. 
If  she  had  noticed  him  at  all,  it  was  in  a  busy 
fashion,  with  the  single  quick,  abstracted  glance 
usual  to  strangers  in  a  crowd,  in  vivid  contrast  to 
the  Down-East  stare.  Yorke  felt  that  it  was  be 
coming  a  desperate  case.  He  reined  in  the  Ban- 
gor  pony. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  madam  !  " 

The  basket  phaeton,  just  whirling  away,  came 
to  a  pause  unconcernedly. 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  the  liberty,  but  will  you 
direct  me  to  the  town  of  Sherman  ?  " 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  19 

Something  in  Yorke's  accent  of  desperation  was 
funny.  The  young  lady's  eyes  twinkled  for  an 
instant.  She  looked  as  if  she  would  have  laughed 
if  she  had  dared.  But  she  answered  him  with 
grave  politeness. 

"  It  is  four  miles  to  Sherman." 

"  Thank  you."  The  young  man  sat,  with  his 
hat  raised,  hesitating.  "  I  ought  to  apologize  for 
troubling  a  lady.  But  I  have  met  nothing  but 
dislocated  sign-posts  and  admiring  natives  for  ten 
miles.  One  gave  me  as  correct  information  as 
another.  Is  Sherman  the  nearest  place  where  I 
can  get  a  dinner  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  Yes,  I 
know  it  is.  If  you  take  your  first  left  below  here, 
you  will  find  it  an  easy  four  miles."  She  spoke 
with  the  unconscious  ease  with  which,  perhaps, 
only  an  American  lady  could  have  addressed  a 
stranger  met  upon  an  unknown  errand  on  a  soli 
tary  road ;  but  she  gathered  her  reins  as  she 
spoke. 

"I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you,"  persisted 
Yorke.  "  You  said  the  second  left  ?  " 

"  I  said  the  first  left.  I  am  going  to  Sherman. 
If  your  horse  is  not  too  tired  to  keep  distantly  in 
sight,  my  phaeton  will  direct  you  without  further 
trouble." 


20  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

She  spoke  as  simply  as  one  gentleman  might 
have  spoken  to  another.  Yorke,  too  profoundly 
grateful  to  her  to  notice  this  at  first,  remembered 
it  as  the  gray  mare  sped  away  through  the  hollow. 

How  exquisitely  it  was  done !  The  Beacon 
Street  gentleman  felt  a  glow  of  appreciation  of 
the  little  scene,  viewed  purely  as  a  specimen  of 
the  religion  of  good  manners.  He  would  have 
liked  his  mother  to  see  it.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing 
she  could  estimate  at  its  worth. 

"  Going  to  Sherman,"  what  a  divine  Christian 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  stranger,  and 
the  Maine  wilderness  had  taken  him  in  !  Even 
that  though  a  man,  he  might  yet  be  a  gentleman, 
out  of  his  way,  misdirected,  tired,  perplexed,  and 
hungry.  "If  his  horse  were  not  too  tired,"  — 
what  a  delicate  fashion  of  comparing  the  exhaust 
ed  and  now  abject-looking  Bangor  pony  with  her 
own  sturdy  little  steed  !  "  Distantly  in  sight,"  — 
could  language  more  ?  Faint,  swift,  maidenly 
afterthought  to  the  kindly  impulse !  Yorke  had 
wrought  himself  into  rather  a  glow,  perhaps,  by 
dint  of  present  gratitude  and  promised  dinner, 
but  that  simple  little  speech  certainly  seemed  to 
him,  as  he  thought  of  it,  a  classic  in  its  way. 

Meanwhile,  the  "  frisky  wagin  "  had  tripped 
along  over  knoll  and  hollow,  and  the  bright  "  am- 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  21 

berel  atop  "  bad  turned  into  the  thickly- wooded 
road  and  disappeared  from  view.  Waldo  Yorke 
whipped  up  and  hurried  on. 

Distantly  in  sight,  indeed  !  Was  there  an  in 
nocent  sarcasm  in  that  womanly  thrust  ?  The 
gray  mare  could  make  her  eleven  miles  an  hour 
easily,  if  put  to  it.  The  Banger  pony  begged 
piteously  now  at  six.  The  basket  phaeton  flew 
to  Sherman.  The  buggy  struggled  after.  The 
mare  put  her  head  down,  and  trotted  straight  and 
stiff,  —  a  steady  roadster.  The  buggy  followed  by 
the  fits  and  starts,  the  turns  of  elation  and  depres 
sion,  the  jerks  of  hope  and  lurches  of  despair, 
familiar  to  drivers  of  nervous  ponies  at  the  end  of 
a  steady  pull.  Distantly  in  sight !  He  should  do 
well,  indeed,  if  he  kept  a  mirage  of  her  in  sight. 

They  had  turned  now  quite  away  from  the 
coast-line.  The  scattering  farms,  the  tiny  huts 
with  enormous  barns  attached,  the  intelligent  na 
tives,  the  heavy  stage-track,  the  dust,  the  glare, 
the  cliffs,  the  sea,  had  vanished.  The  forest 
opened  its  arms  again  to  the  travelers,  and  the 
world  grew  green  and  cool. 

Off  the  stage-road  here,  the  density  seemed 
deeper,  the  shadow  more  abandoned.  Through 
the  impressive  solitude  the  gay  little  phaeton 
cover  danced  along ;  through  it  the  solemn  black 


22  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

buggy-top  lumbered  and  climbed.  The  figure  of 
the  dainty  driver  in  the  phaeton,  erect,  slender,  and 
blue,  sat  motionless  as  a  caryatid  out  of  employ 
ment.  The  eyes  of  the  traveler  in  the  buggy 
vigilantly  pursued  it ;  chiefly,  it  must  be  admit 
ted,  because  he  wanted  his  dinner  ;  possibly,  in 
part  because  he  fancied  the  pose  of  the  caryatid, 
—  any  man  would. 

The  shadow  deadened  as  they  rode,  but  not 
from  the  darkening  of  the  day.  On  either  hand 
the  solid  serried  oaks  seemed  to  step  out  and  press 
against  the  narrow  drive-way  ;  thickets,  whose 
black  hearts  relieved  the  various  outlines  of  wild 
blackbei'ry,  sumach,  elder,  and  grape,  netted 
themselves  more  tightly,  and  grew  stiff,  looking 
like  bronze ;  the  aspens  and  pallid  birches  wooed 
one  another  across  the  narrowing  road.  Vistas  of 
soft  gloom  stretched  on.  There  was  no  light  now, 
but  flickering  needles,  fine  as  those  of  the  pines, 
and  drifting  with  them,  that  with  difficulty 
pierced  the  opaque  green  heavens  of  the  over 
reaching  trees.  One  looked  twice  in  the  low  tone 
of  the  place  even  to  see  what  the  roadside  flowers 
were.  Yorke  had  almost  passed  unnoticed  an 
apple-tree  in  full  blossom,  and  it  was  past  the  first 
of  June.  Nothing  could  have  so  vividly  presented 
to  him  a  sense  of  the  painful  Maine  spring,  and 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  23 

the  frozen,  laggard  life  that  looked  out  from  be 
hind  it  upon  a  gentler  world. 

It  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time,  as  the 
depth  and  solitude  of  the  road  made  themselves 
fully  manifest,  to  wonder  if  the  young  lady  felt 
no  hesitation  in  trusting  herself  to  drive  over  it 
alone.  Apparently,  he  had  here  some  society  girl, 
whose  whim  it  was  to  be  unfashionable,  and  in 
Maine,  at  this  unusual  season.  She  was  a  little 
intoxicated  with  Nature's  grand  unconventional- 
ity ;  had  no  more  fear,  it  seemed,  than  a  butterfly 
released  from  a  chrysalis. 

He  wondered  if  she  did  him  the  credit  not  to 
take  him  for  a  cut-throat.  But  a  grim  glance  at 
the  widening  distance  between  the  phaeton  and 
the  buggy  strangled  this  bit  of  self-satisfaction  at 
its  first  breath.  Plainly,  the  case  involved  not  so 
much  a  high  opinion  of  the  man  as  a  low  one  of 
the  horse. 

Those  delicate  lovers,  the  birch  and  aspen,  and 
the  more  ardent  ones,  the  oak  and  hickory  beyond 
them,  were  now  making  themselves  obnoxious,  as 
lovers  always  do  to  third  parties,  and  swept  a  fra 
grant  and  defiant  arch  low  across  the  way.  Swift 
in  the  passing,  the  buff  umbrella  went  deftly 
down.  Slow  in  the  following,  the  buggy-top 
groaned  back. 


24  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

The  blue  caryatid  was  daintily  cut  now  against 
the  heavy  shadow.  Fine  pencilings  of  light  fell 
on  her :  she  wore,  it  might  be,  a  straw  hat,  which 
caught  them ;  they  struck  her  hair  too,  and  her 
shoulder.  She  stirred  but  once.  Then  she  turned 
to  break  some  apple-blossoms.  She  picked  the 
flowers  at  full  speed  and  standing. 

Yorke,  as  he  watched  her  with  the  half-amused 
attention  of  a  traveler  who  has  nothing  better  to 
do  than  to  "  follow  the  duty  nearest  him,"  got  the 
jingle  of  Lucy  Gray  into  his  head  :  — 

"  O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along 
And  never  looks  behind." 

And  now  Yorke  put  his  case  to  the  Bangor  pony, 
and  despairingly  relinquished  it.  The  buggy 
lagged  dead  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  phaeton 
speeding  across  the  hollow,  reached  the  crossing 
of  the  ways,  turned  a  sudden  corner,  and  was 
gone. 

"  And  never  looked  behind  "  sighed  the  young 
man,  out  of  temper  with  the  pony,  or  the  jingle, 
or  what  not. 

"  And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind." 

When  the  Bangor  pony  panted  up  to  the  cross 
roads,  the  phaeton  had  vanished  utterly.  The 
caryatid  had  become  a  dream,  a  delusion,  a  slen- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  25 

der  and  obliging  deceiver.  Four  solitary  roads 
pierced  the  forest  at  four  separate  green  angles. 
A  dull  sign-board  stood  in  the  square,  and  the 
traveler  hastened  gratefully  to  it.  It  bore  in 
faded  tints,  once  red  and  yellow  and  inspiring,  an 
advertisement  of  Hooflands'  German  Bitters. 

Blue  caryatides  indeed  !  In  what  hues  less  in 
tellectually  respectable  was  the  young  woman  per 
haps  portraying  him  by  this  time  to  the  summer 
people  at  Sherman,  a'  party  of  gay  girls  like  her 
self  ? 

The  young  man  bit  his  lip  somewhat  distinctly, 
for  a  Bostonian,  and  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute 
in  the  heart  of  the  cross-roads,  uncertain  which  of 
the  four  narrow  wooded  ways  looked  least  as  if 
it  ended  in  a  cranberry  swamp,  or  a  clearing,  or 
other  abstractly  useful  but  concretely  dinnerless 
locality. 

Suddenly,  his  eye  caught  the  soft,  irregular  out 
line  of  some  small  object  lying  in  the  dust,  a  rod 
or  so  down  the  direct  road.  •  He  drove  up  to  it. 
As  he  approached  it  grew  pink,  as  if  it  blushed. 
It  was  an  apple-blossom. 


II. 

YORKE'S  faith  in  woman  rallied.  If  the  cary 
atid  meant  it,  —  and  a  caryatid  might,  be  capable 
of  just  such  a  picturesque  procedure,  —  it  was 
very  delicately  done.  If  she  did  not  mean  it,  at 
all  events  he  had  got  scientifically  past  the  cross 
roads  on  his  way,  and  she  had  got  successfully  out 
of  it.  He  picked  up  the  apple-blossom,  and  drove 
on.  It  could  not  have  been  ten  minutes  before 
his  dumb  guide  brought  him  abruptly  from  the 
forest  almost  into  the  heart  of  the  village. 

The  little  town  of  Sherman  slept  peacefully  in 
the  afternoon  sun.  No  one  seemed  to  be  astir. 
No  glimmer  of  a  phaeton  cover  shone  across  the 
hot,  still  street.  The  caryatid  was  gone,  —  where, 
it  really  did  not  occur  to  the  young  man  to  won 
der.  He  and  the  Bangor  pony  forgot  her  with 
equal  rapidity  and  success,  in  the  leisurely  hospi 
tality  of  the  Sherman  Hotel. 

SHEHMAN,  MAINE,  June  5th. 

MY  DEAR  MOTHER,  —  I  h'ope  you  promptly  re 
ceived  the  letter  I  mailed  from  Bangor.  Another 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  27 

went,  also,  from  some  indefinite  locality  in  the 
Maine  wilderness :  they  called  it  a  post-office ;  I 
believe  it  was  a  town-pump  —  or  an  undertaker's  ; 
but  my  memory  is  not  precise  on  this  point. 

I  am  just  settled  and  at  work.  Uncle  Jed's  af 
fairs  are  a  mesh  as  fine  as  that  eternal  tatting 
Lucy  Garratt  used  to  bring  over  to  our  house, 
when  she  was  a  school-girl.  My  regards  to  the 
Garratts,  by  the  way,  when  you  write. 

It  threatens  to  be  a  process  of  some  weeks  to 
unravel  my  tatting,  and  I  have  taken  lodgings  with 
Uncle  Jed's  executor.  I  stood  the  Sherman  Hotel 
for  twenty-four  hours.  I  've  saved  one  of  their 
doughnuts  for  a  croquet-ball,  to  complete  our  im 
perfect  set.  Direct  your  letters,  if  you  please,  care 
Isaiah  Butterwell,  Esq. 

In  Isaiah  Butterwell  I  find  a  genuine  "  fine  old 
country  gentleman,"  and  Uncle  Jed's  confidential 
and  devoted  friend.  He  is  a  man  of  property,  in 
fluence,  and  honor  in  this  place.  It  is  kind  in 
them  to  take  me  in.  Mrs.  Isaiah  says  she  is  glad 
of  my  society.  She,  by  the  way,  has  an  eye  like  a 
linnet  and  a  tongue  like  a  Jonathan  Crook  pocket- 
knife,  and  a  receipt  for  waffles  which  in  itself  has 
reconciled  me  to  Sherman  society  for  indefinite 
lengths. 

I  seem  to  be  the  only  member  of  the  family 


28  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

besides  the  united  head.  It  is  a  huge  house,  with 
wings,  dead  white,  and  reminds  me  of  a  Millerite 
robed  and  wondering  why  he  can't  fly.  We  seem  to 
live  a  good  deal  at  one  side  of  the  house,  and  one 
of  the  wings  belongs  to  me.  I  have  not  explored 
as  yet  beyond  my  own  quarters  and  the  dining- 
room.  Strain  the  Beacon  Street  imagination,  if 
you  can,  up  to  the  level  of  waffles  for  tea !  She 
asked  me,  too,  if  I  would  have  feathers  or  hair, 
and  did  I  prefer  woolen  sheets  ?  The  house  is  per 
fectly  still,  and  altogether  delightful.  As  I  write, 
a  single  sound  of  wheels  breaks  the  deep,  sweet 
country  silence.  They  roll  softly  up  and  past  my 
window  to  the  barn  ;  probably  Mr.  Butterwell  has 
been  to  the  prayer-meeting,  a  dissipation  to  which 
his  good  wife  endeavored  to  decoy  me.  Rather 
late  for  a  prayer-meeting,  too.  Mr.  Isaiah  drives 
a  good  horse,  I  perceive. 

Speaking  of  good  horses,  I  lost  my  way,  coming 
on,  and  was  piloted  through  the  forest  by  a  cary 
atid  in  a  basket  phaeton.  Remind  me  to  tell  you 
about  her  when  I  get  homo. 

To-morrow  I  drive  out  about  twelve  miles  along 
the  coast,  to  see  a  man  who  knows  another  man 
who  has  heard  of  a  "  widder  lady  "  who  stands 
ready  to  purchase  certain  shares  of  a  certain  ship 
which  come  into  poor  Uncle  Jed's  legacy.  They 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  29 

launch  their  ships  in  salt  brooks  here,  and  trust 
fully  tug  them  out  in  search  of  the  sea.  I  shall 
convert  all  these  wandering  investments  into  cash 
as  soon  as  possible,  at  any  reasonable  sacrifice,  for 
I  fancy  there  can't  be  more  than  three  or  four 
thousand  involved  at  most.  The  property  is 
widely  scattered,  much  of  it  in  local  loans,  like 
that  of  most  Maine  merchants.  My  share,  as  you 
remember,  is  more  concise.  Write  when  you  can. 
Remember  me  to  cousin  Don.  Don't  miss  me.  It 
does  n't  pay.  Your  affectionate  son, 

WALDO  YORKE. 

Waldo  Yorke  had  started  in  search  of  the  post- 
ofHce  to  mail  this  letter,  when  Mrs.  Isaiah  Butter- 
well  followed  her  guest  to  the  door,  and  stood, 
while  he  was  gathering  the  reins  over  the  now 
gayly-recuperated  Bangor  pony.  Mrs.  Butterwell 
was  a  well-di-essed  woman,  in  the  Maine  sense  of 
the  term.  She  had  a  homely,  independent  face, 
with  soft  eyes,  —  not  unlike  a  linnet's,  as  Yorke 
had  said.  She  regarded  him  closely  for  a  moment, 
and  without  speaking. 

"  What  a  charming  day  !  "  said  Yorke,  feeling 
it  necessary  to  be  polite  even  at  the  expense  of 
originality. 

"  I  'm  too  busy  to  bother  with  the  weather,"  re- 


30  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

plied  Mrs.  Isaiah,  briskly.  "  Can't  spare  the  time 
for  that  Down  East." 

"  Indeed !  That  is  a  frugal  sentiment,  at  all 
events,"  Yorke  ventured. 

"  There  's  no  sentiment  about  it,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Butterwell.  "  It 's  sense  ;  as  you  'd  find  out  if 
you  lived  here.  If  I  'd  spent  myself  noticing 
weather,  I  should  have  been  in  my  grave  ten  win 
ters  ago.  Are  you  fond  of  young  women?  " 

The  linnet  put  this  startling  question  with  gen 
tle  eyes,  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  capture  a 
ray  of  satire  or  of  fun. 

"  As  I  am  of  the  State  of  Maine,  —  with  res 
ervations,"  said  Yorke  guardedly,  visions  of  Sher 
man  "  society  "  presenting  themselves  at  once. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  an  early  dinner,  then  ?  "  pur 
sued  Mrs.  Butterwell,  with  the  serene  air  of  one 
who  clearly  sees  the  links  of  her  own  syllogism. 

"  Passionately,  madam." 

"We  dine,"  said  the  hostess,  bowing  herself 
away  with  a  certain  dignity,  "  at  half  past 
twelve." 

"  I  will  be  at  my  post,"  said  the  guest,  smiling, 
"  dead  or  alive  I  " 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that  if  I  was  you,"  urged  Mrs. 
Isaiah  Butterwell,  returning  to  the  door-step,  and 
looking  gravely  at  the  young  man.  "  I  've  always 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  31 

thought,  if  I  'd  been  God,  I  'd  have  been  tempted 
to  take  people  up  that  way,  just  for  the  sake  of  it. 
Talk  about  his  tempting  folks  !  Folks  throw  a 
terrible  lot  of  temptation  in  his  way.  But  there 
it  is.  It  just  shows  he  isn't  made  up  like  other 
people,  after  all.  How  that  horse  of  yours  does 
fuss  ! " 

The  Bangor  pony  was  nervous  indeed  that 
morning  ;  highly  grained,  after  the  journey,  in  Mr. 
Isaiah's  generous  stable.  The  buggy  sped  along 
the  village  street  with  emphasis. 

It  is  doubtful  if  the  caryatid  would  have  offered 
her  services  as  guide  to  its  occupant  that  day, 
through  the  beautiful  heart  of  the  forest,  four 
miles  deep. 

Waldo  Yorke,  as  he  clattered  through  that 
pleasant  representative  Maine  town,  where  the 
meeting-house,  post-office,  and  "  store  "  were  the 
important  features,  and  impressed  him  chiefly  as 
reminiscences  of  American  novels  which  he  had 
tried  to  read  and  failed  at  the  third  chapter, 
amused  himself  by  a  rapid  acquaintance  with  the 
business  signs. 

"Goodsell,  Merchant."  "Cole  and  Wood: 
Lumber  Dealers."  "  Dr.  A.  Lloyd."  "  Coffins, 
cheap  for  Cash."  "  Smith  and  Jones,  formerly 
Jedediah  Yorke,"  —  and  so  on.  He  got  these 


32  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

things  into  his  head  as  he  had  the  rhyme  of  Lucy 
Gray,  the  day  before,  with  that  idiocy  which  as 
serts  itself  in  this  exasperating  form,  and  which 
threatens  to  prove  the  human  intellect  more  law 
less  than  the  passions  or  the  will.  He  found  him 
self  particularly  a  victim  to  the  cheerful  refrain  of 
"  Coffins,  cheap  for  Cash." 

His  host  overtook  him  before  he  had  driven  far. 
Mr.  Isaiah  Butterwell,  as  Yorke  had  observed, 
shared  the  apparently  well-spread  Maine  apprecia 
tion  of  a  good  horse.  He  reined  up  his  heavy, 
handsome  sorrel,  and  the  two  men  rode  abreast 
for  a  mile  ;  they  chatted,  across  wheels,  of  horses, 
the  estate  and  Uncle  Jed,  and  Maine  politics,  and 
the  price  of  lumber,  and  horses  again.  The  Bos 
ton  boy  listened  deferentially  to  the  gray  Maine 
merchant  ;  perceiving  in  him  something  of  the 
same  rugged  dignity  that  Uncle  Jed  had  borne  in 
Beacon  Street.  Yorke  felt  that  here  was  a  king 
in  his  own  country  ;  he  regarded  the  hard-worked 
man  with  respect,  and  pleased  himself  with  draw 
ing  his  points  out,  and  storing  them  up,  so  to 
speak,  with  a  sense  of  increasing  one's  knowledge 
of  "  types." 

"  I  've  got  to  leave  you,  to  collect  some  inter 
est,"  said  Mr.  Butterwell  presently.  "  That 's 
my  turn,  —  the  first  right.  You  keep  straight  on 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  33 

till  you  find  your  man.  Drive  easy  over  the 
bridges.  They  're  plaguey  rickety,  some  of  'em. 
That  pony  of  yours  ain't  used  to  'em  in  Ban- 
gor.  Back  to  dinner  ?  Hope  so.  There,  now,  I 
wonder  if  my  wife  has  told  you  —  whoa  !  —  told 
you  about  —  whoa,  Zach  Chandler !  —  about  — 
Whoa!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  told  me  !  "  called  Yorke  politely, 
as  the  two  horses  nervously  parted  company.  He 
looked,  laughing,  back  to  watch  the  old  man, 
thinking  how  sacred  their  dinner  hour  was  to 
these  two  lonely  people  ;  how  large  all  little  events 
must  be  in  lives  like  theirs.  His  heart  was  full  of 
a  gentle  feeling,  half  deference,  half  compassion. 
Mr.  ButterwelFs  gi  ay  hair  blew  in  the  wind  ;  he 
held  the  reins  wound  double  over  his  knotted 
wrist ;  he  sat  with  left  foot  forward.  Zach  Chan 
dler  was  a  long-stepping  horse.  Waldo  Yorke, 
looking  over  his  shoulder,  saw  and  long  remem 
bered  that  he  saw  these  trifling  things.  Sud 
denly  he  felt  a  thrill  in  the  reins  at  which  his  own 
horse  was  tugging  steadily  and  sensibly.  He 
turned  his  head,  to  see  the  Bangor  pony  tremble, 
rear,  and  leap  ;  to  see  the  loose  yellow  boards  of 
a  murderously-laid  bridge  bound  up  ;  to  see  that 
there  was  no  railing  ;  to  perceive  a  narrow  streak 
of  black  —  water,  presumably  ;  and  to  know  that 


34  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

he  was  scooped  into  the  overturned  buggy-top,  and 
dragged,  and  torn,  and  swept  away. 

The  whole  thing  may  have  taken  three  minutes. 
All  that  occurred  to  the  young  man  quite  clearly, 
as  he  went  down,  was,  "  Coffins,  cheap  for  Cash." 

Against  the  blackness  of  darkness  a  blur  ap 
pears  ;  it  stirs  ;  it  has  extension  and  intension  ;  it 
throbs  and  thrills,  and  with  the  eternal  wonder  of 
creation  moving  upon  chaos,  there  is  light.  After 
all,  how  easy  a  matter  it  was  to  die !  And  coffins 
in  Maine  are  cheap  for  cash.  How  could  a  man 
have  believed  that  a  process  so  abnormally  dreaded 
for  nearly  thirty  years  could  be,  in  truth,  so  nor 
mal  and  so  deficient  in  the  extreme  elements  of 
agony?  To  be  sure,  there  was  one  crashing  blow; 
a  compression  of  some  endurance  within  narrow 
limits  ;  but  he  had  suffered  as  much  from  neural 
gia,  far  more  from  the  prospect  of  death. 

How  clearly  and  distinctly,  though  slowly, 
vision  returns,  in  this  new  condition  !  There  is  a 
handsome  old  lady  in  a  point  applique  cap.  Like 
the  child  of  Adah,  she  "  goeth  lame  and  lovely." 
By  the  way,  will  one  make  the  acquaintance  of  a 
man  like  Lamb,  in  the  society  to  which  one  is 
now  to  be  introduced  ?  Yes ;  still  the  old  lady  in 
the  lace  cap.  She  is  sitting  by  the  library  grate, 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  35 

alone ;  her  crutch  has  fallen  to  the  floor  ;  a  yellow 
telegraph  envelope  is  on  the  hearth  ;  she  is  not 
weeping,  but  her  face  is  bowed ;  she  looks  very 
old ;  the  lines  about  her  mouth  are  pinched  ;  she 
has  a  haggard  color.  It  seems  easy  to  speak  to 
her.  How  easy  !  Mother  ?  Mother !  She  does 
not  lift  her  head.  Mother  !  It  is  true  what  we 
were  told,  then.  The  living  do  not  hear.  The 
dead  may  cry  forever.  A  horrible  deafness  has 
fallen  upon  her.  A  man  would  have  liked  to  see 
her  once,  —  to  say  good-by,  or  to  have  her  sit 
by  him  a  few  minutes.  Yet  it  seems  there  is 
a  woman  here.  That  is  a  woman's  hand  which 
rather  hovers  over  than  holds  me.  How  cool  it 
is  !  How  delicate !  .  .  .  Ah,  no !  Remove  your 
hand  !  It  does  not  caress  ;  it  tears  me.  Remove 
your  hand  !  I  am  in  agony.  "What  in  the  name 
of  life  and  death  has  happened  to  me  in  this 
accursed  wilderness  ?  Was  there  anything  in 
those  okl-fashioned  dogmas  after  all?  Take  off 
your  hand,  I  say !  I  know  I  might  have  been  a 
better  man,  but  I  Ve  tried  to  be  clean  and  hon 
est.  I  don't  say  I  'm  fit  for  heaven,  but  I  don't 
deserve  this.  You  torture  me.  Remove  your  hand! 
Am  I  in  — 

"  You  are  in  your  own  room,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Isaiah  Butterwell,  distinctly. 


36  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

«  Ah  !  —  so  I  see." 

Yorke  tried  to  lift  his  head  ;  it  fell  back  heavily, 
and  he  felt  blood  start. 

"  Madam,  you  are  very  good.  I  must  have 
been  troublesome.  I  thought  I  was  —  dead." 

"  I  'in  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Yorke,  but  I  must  say 
that  I  don't  approve  of  your  theology,"  said  his 
hostess,  grimly. 

"  I  dare  say.  I  would  not  have  offended  you 
if  —  Ah,  how  weak  I  am  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Am  I  much  hurt  ?  " 

"  Some,  Mr.  Yorke." 

"  Plow  much  ?  Answer  me.  I  will  have  the 
truth.  The  blood  flows  —  see  !  when  I  even  think 
that  you  may  be  deceiving  me.  Am  I  terribly 
hurt  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so,  sir." 

A  heavy  silence  falls. 

"  Shall  we  telegraph  for  your  mother,  sir  ?  " 

"My  mother  is  crippled.     No." 

"  For  any  sister,  or  anybody  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  sister." 

"  Mr.  Bntterwell  will  write." 

"  Where  is  the  doctor  ?  I  should  like  to  see 
him  first.  You  have  called  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  sir." 
''  * 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  37 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  The  doctor  left  about  five  minutes  ago." 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  " 

"  Very  little." 

"  I  wish  to  see  the  doctor  before  my  mother 
is  written  to.  Call  him  back  !  —  if  you  please. 
.  .  .  Call  him  back,  I  say !  Why  do  you  hesi 
tate  ?  I  may  be  a  dead  man  in  a  few  hours.  Do 
as  I  bid  you  !  " 

"  The  doctor  said,  Mr.  Yorke  "  — 

"  Said  what  ?  " 

"  Said  that  —  sh,  Isaiah  !  —  he  was  to  be  the 
judge  when  it  was  best  for  you  to  see  your  physi 
cian.  If  you  asked,  I  was  to  say  that  you  will 
have  every  possible  attention,  and  I  was  to  say 
that  all  depends  on  your  obedience." 

"  That  sounds  like  a  man  who  understands  his 
business." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  sir,  that  is  true  !    Our  doctor  "  — 

"  Oh,  well ;  very  well.  Let  it  go.  I  must 
obey,  I  suppose.  Never  mind.  Thank  you. 
Move  me  a  little  to  the  left.  I  cannot  stir.  I  am 
unaccountably  sleepy.  Has  the  fellow  drugged 
me  ?  I  think  perhaps  I  may  —  rest  "  — 

He  did,  indeed,  fall  into  sleep,  or  a  stupor  that 
simulated  sleep ;  he  woke  from  it  at  intervals, 
thinking  confusedly,  but  without  keen  alarm,  of 


88  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

his  condition.  The  thing  which  worried  him 
most  was  the  probable  character  of  this  Down- 
East  doctor  upon  whose  intelligence  he  had  fallen. 
"  The  fellow  absolutely  holds  my  life  in  his 
hands,"  he  said  aloud.  It  was  hard  to  think  what 
advance  of  science  the  practitioner  undoubtedly 
represented.  Dreamily,  between  his  lapses  into 
unconsciousness,  the  injured  man  recalled  a  fossil, 
whom  he  had  seen,  on  his  journey  from  Bangor, 
lumbering  about  in  a  sulky  at  one  of  the  minor 
stage  stations ;  a  boy,  too,  just  graduated,  practic 
ing  on  the  helpless  citizens  of  Cherrytown,  —  was 
it?  No,  but  some  of  those  little  places.  Then  he 
thought  of  some  representatives  of  the  profession 
whom  he  had  met  in  the  mountains,  and  at  other 
removes  from  the  centres  of  society.  He  under 
stood  perfectly  that  he  was  a  subject  for  a  sur 
geon.  He  understood  that  he  was  horribly  hurt. 
He  thought  of  his  mother.  He  thought  of  his 
mother's  doctor,  whom  he  had  so  often  teased  her 
about.  In  one  of  his  wakeful  intervals,  another 
source  of  trouble  occurred  to  him  for  the  first 
time.  He  called  to  his  hostess,  and  restlessly 
asked,  — 

"  I  suppose  there  is  n't  a  homoeopathist  short 
of  Bangor  ?  " 

"  Our  doctor  is  homoeopathy,"  said  Mrs.  But- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  39 

terwell,  instantly  on  the  defensive ;  "  but  you 
need  not  be  uneasy,  sir,  for  a  better,  kinder  "  — 

"  My  mother  will  be  so  glad  !  "  interrupted  the 
young  man,  feebly.  He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
a  She  would  never  have  been  able  to  bear  it,  if  I 
had  died  under  the  other  treatment.  Women  feel 
so  strongly  about  these  things.  I  am  glad  to  know 
that  —  for  her  sake,  —  poor  mother  !  "  He  turned 
again,  and  slept. 

It  was  late  evening  when  he  roused  and  spoke 
again.  He  found  himself  in  great  suffering. 
He  called  petulantly,  and  demanded  to  be  told 
where  that  doctor  was.  Some  one  answered  that 
the  doctor  had  been  in  while  he  slept.  The  room 
was  darkened.  He  dimly  perceived  figures,  —  Mr. 
Butter  well  in  the  doorway,  and  women  ;  two  of 
them.  He  beckoned  to  his  hostess,  and  tried  to 
tell  her  that  he  was  glad  she  had  obtained  assist 
ance,  and  to  beg  her  to  hire  all  necessary  nursing 
freely  ;  but  he  was  unable  to  express  himself,  and 
sank  away  again. 

The  next  time  he  became  conscious,  a  clock 
somewhere  was  striking  midnight.  He  felt  the 
night  air,  and  gratefully  turned  his  mutilated, 
feverish  face  over  towards  it.  A  sick-lamp  was 
burning  low,  in  the  entry,  casting  a  little  circle  of 
light  upon  the  old-fashioned,  large-patterned  oil- 


40  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

cloth.  Only  one  person  was  in  the  room,  a  woman. 
He  asked  her  for  water.  She  brought  it.  She 
had  a  soft  step.  When  he  had  satisfied  his  thirst, 
which  he  was  allowed  to  do  without  protest,  the 
woman  gave  him  medicine.  He  recognized  the 
familiar  tumbler  and  teaspoon  of  his  homocopath- 
ically  educated  infancy.  He  obeyed  passively. 
The  woman  fed  him  with  the  medicine  ;  she  did 
not  spill  it,  nor  choke  him  ;  when  she  returned 
the  teaspoon  to  the  glass,  he  dimly  saw  the  shape 
of  her  hand.  He  said,  — 

"  You  are  not  Mrs.  Butterwell." 

"  No." 

"  You  are  my  nurse?  " 

"  I  take  care  of  you  to-night,  sir." 

"I  —  thank  you,"  said  Yorke,  with  a  faint 
touch  of  his  Beacon-Street  courtliness ;  and  so  fell 
away  again. 

He  moved  once  more  at  dawn.  He  was  alarm 
ingly  feverish.  He  heard  the  birds  singing,  and 
saw  gray  light  through  the  slats  of  the  closed 
green  blinds.  His  agony  had  increased.  He  still 
moaned  for  water,  and  his  mind  reverted  obsti 
nately  to  its  chief  anxiety.  He  said,  — 

"Where  is  that  doctor?  I  am  too  sick  a  man 
to  be  neglected.  I  must  see  the  doctor." 

"  The  doctor  has  been  here,"  said  the  woman 
who  was  serving  as  nurse,  "  nearly  all  night." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  41 

"  Ah  !     I  have  been  unconscious,  I  know." 

"  Yes.  But  you  have  been  cared  for.  I  hope 
that  you  will  be  able  to  compose  }7ourself.  I  trust 
that  you  will  feel  no  undue  anxiety  about  your 
medical  attendance.  Everything  shall  be  done, 
Mr.  Yorke." 

"  I  like  your  voice,"  said  the  patient,  with  deli 
rious  frankness.  "  I  have  n't  heard  one  like  it 
since  I  left  home.  I  wish  I  were  at  home !  It  is 
natural  that  I  should  feel  some  anxiety  about  this 
country  physician.  I  want  to  know  the  worst.  I 
shall  feel  better  after  I  have  seen  him." 

"  Perhaps  you  may,"  replied  the  nurse,  after  a 
slight  hesitation.  "  I  will  go  and  see  about  it. 
Sleep  if  you  can.  I  shall  be  back  directly." 

This  quieted  him,  and  he  slept  once  more. 
When  he  waked  it  was  broadening,  brightening, 
beautiful  day.  The  nurse  was  standing  behind 
him  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  which  was  pushed  out 
from  the  wall  into  the  free  air.  She  said  :  — 

"  The  doctor  is  here,  Mr.  Yorke,  and  will  speak 
with  you  in  a  moment.  The  bandage  on  your 
head  is  to  be  changed  first." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  That  is  right.  I  am  glad 
you  have  come,  sir."  The  patient  sighed  con 
tentedly.  He  submitted  to  the  painful  operation 
without  further  comment  or  complaint.  He  felt 


42  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

how  much  he  was  hurt,  and  how  utterly  he  was  at 
the  mercy  of  this  unseen,  unknown  being,  who 
stood  in  the  mysterious  dawn  there,  fighting  for 
his  fainting  life. 

.  .  .  He  handled  one  gently  enough  ;  firmly, 
too,  —  not  a  tremor;  it  did  seem  a  practiced  touch. 

The  color  slowly  struck  and  traversed  the  young 
man's  ghastly  face. 

"  Is  this  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Be  calm,  sir,  —  yes." 

"  Is  that  the  doctor's  hand  I  feel  upon  my  head 
at  this  moment  ?  " 

"Be  quiet,  Mr.  Yorke,  — it  is." 

"  But  this  is  a  woman's  hand  !  " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  sir.  I  would  if  I  could,  just 
this  minute,  rather  than  to  disappoint  you  so." 

The  startled  color  ebbed  from  the  patient's 
face,  dashing  it  white,  leaving  it  gray.  He  looked 
very  ill.  He  repeated  faintly,  — 

"  A  woman's  hand!  " 

"  It  is  a  good-sized  hand,  sir." 

"I  —     Excuse  me,  madam." 

"  It  is  a  strong  hand,  Mr.  Yorke.  It  does  not 
tremble.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see." 

"  It  is  not  a  rough  hand,  I  hope.  It  will  not 
inflict  more  pain  than  it  must." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  43 

"  I  know." 

"  It  will  inflict  all  that  it  ought.  It  is  not  afraid. 
It  has  handled  serious  injuries  before.  Yours  is 
not  the  first." 

-  What  shall  I  do?"  cried  the  sick  man,  with 
piteous  bluntness. 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  avoided  this  shock  and 
worry,"  replied  the  physician.  She  still  stood, 
unseen  and  unsummoned,  at  the  head  of  his  bed. 
"  I  beg  that  you  will  not  disturb  yourself.  There 
is  another  doctor  in  the  village.  I  can  put  you 
in  his  hands  at  once,  if  you  desire.  Your  uneasi 
ness  is  very  natural.  I  will  fasten  this  bandage 
first,  if  you  please." 

She  finished  her  work  in  silence,  with  deft  and 
gentle  fingers. 

"  Come  round  here,"  said  the  patient  feebly. 
"  I  want  to  look  at  you." 


III. 

SHE  came  at  once.  She  stepped  before  him  at 
the  bedside,  and  stood  there  without  moving.  She 
let  him  look  at  her  as  long  as  he  would.  It  was 
not  long.  He  felt  very  ill.  He  regarded  her 
confusedly.  He  perceived  a  woman  of  medium 
height,  with  a  well- shaped  head.  He  felt  the 
dress  and  carriage  of  a  lady.  His  eye  fell  upon 
her  hands,  which  were  crossed  lightly  on  the  edge 
of  the  little  table  where  his  medicines  stood.  Sick 
as  he  was,  he  noticed  unusual  signs  of  strength  in 
her  fingers,  which  were  yet  not  deficient  in  deli 
cacy.  Yorke  had  always  judged  people  a  good 
deal  by  their  hands.  He  repeated  his  nervous 
phrase :  — 

"  I  am  in  a  woman's  hands  !  " 

She  spread  them  out  before  him  with  a  swift, 
fine  gesture;  then  made  as  if  she  put  something 
unseen  at  one  side  from  them. 

"  Let  me  send  for  the  man  I  spoke  of.  You 
are  irresolute.  You  are  losing  strength  and  time. 
This  is  a  mistake  as  well  as  a  misfortune.  I  can't 
help  being  a  woman,  but  I  can  help  your  suffering 
from  the  fact." 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  45 

"  No,  —  not  yet.  No.  Wait  a  moment.  I 
wish  to  speak  with  you.  Will  you  pardon  me  if 
I  ask  —  a  few  questions  ?  " 

"  I  will  pardon  anything.  But  they  must  be 
very  few.  I  shall  not  stand  by  and  see  you  spend 
your  breath  unnecessarily." 

"  Are  you  an  educated  physician,  madam  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"A  beginner?  " 

"  I  have  practiced  several  years." 

"  Do  you  think  you  understand  my  case  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do." 

"  This  old  man  you  speak  of,  —  this  other  doc 
tor,  —  what  is  lie  ?  " 

"  His  patients  trust  him." 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  trust  him?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Are  you  the  only  homoeopathist  in  this 
region  ?  " 

"  There  is  one  at  Cherryfield  ;  others  at  Ban- 
gor  ;  none  within  thirty  miles." 

"  Can  you  get  consultation  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  telegraphed  to  Bangor  for  ad 
vice  :  there  is  an  eminent  surgeon  there ;  he  will 
come  if  needed.  I  know  him  well." 

"  How  much  am  I  hurt  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal,  sir." 


46  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Where  are  the  injuries  ?  " 

"  In  the  head,  the  foot,  and  the  right  arm." 

"  What  are  they  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  talk  of  them.  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  talk  any  more  of  anything." 

"  Just  this,  — am  I  in  danger  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Yorke." 

"  I  see  you  can  tell  the  truth.' 

"  I  am  telling  the  truth." 

"  I  begin  to  trust  you." 

She  put  her  ringer  on  her  lip.  He  stirred 
heavily,  with  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  writhe 
himself  into  another  position. 

"  I  cannot  move.  I  did  not  know  my  arm  was 
hurt  before  —  Ah,  there  !  " 

As  he  spoke,  blood  sprang.  The  doctor  made 
towards  him  a  motion  remarkable  for  its  union  of 
swiftness  with  great  composure.  Her  face  had  a 
stern  but  perfectly  steady  light.  She  said  calmly  : 

"  Lie  still,  Mr.  Yorke,"  and  with  one  hand  held 
him  down  upon  the  pillow.  He  perceived  then 
that  a  bandage  had  slipped  from  a  deep  wound 
just  below  the  shoulder,  and  that  a  severed  artery 
was  oozing  red  and  hot.  He  grew  giddy  and 
faint,  but  managed  to  keep  his  wits  together  to 
watch  and  see  what  the  young  woman  would  do. 
She  quickly  bared  his  arm,  from  which  the  sleeve 
was  already  cut  away. 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  47 

"  Mrs.  Butterwell,"  she  called  quietly,  "  will 
you  please  bring  me  some  hot  water  ?  " 

During  the  little  delay  which  ensued  on  this 
order  —  a  momentary  one,  for  Mrs.  Isaiah  Butter- 
well  was  one  of  those  housekeepers  who  would  pre 
fer  a  lukewarm  conscience  to  a  lukewarm  boiler 
— the  doctor  gently  unrolled  the  bandage  from  the 
wound,  which  she  then  thoroughly  sponged  and 
cleansed.  The  patient  thought  he  heard  her  say 
something  about  "  secondary  hamiorrhage  ;  "  but 
the  words,  if  indeed  she  used  them  at  all,  were  not 
addressed  to  him.  The  hot  water  did  not  stop  the 
blood,  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  sucking  his  soul 
out. 

"Hold  this  arm,  Mrs.  Butterwell,"  said  the 
young  lady  —  "just  so.  Keep  it  in  this  position 
till  I  tell  you  to  let  go.  Do  you  understand? 
There.  No,  stay.  Call  Mr.  Butterwell.  I  want 
two." 

She  drew  her  surgical  case  from  her  pocket,  and 
selected  an  artery  forceps.  She  opened  the  wound, 
and  instructed  Mr.  Butterwell  how  to  hold  the 
forceps  in  position  while  she  ligated  the  artery. 
She  bandaged  the  arm,  and  adjusted  it  to  suit  her 
upon  a  pillow.  She  had  a  firm  and  fearless  touch. 
Her  face  betrayed  no  uneasiness  ;  only  the  con 
traction  of  the  brows  inseparable  from  studious 
attention. 


48  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

The  patient  looked  at  the  physician  with  glaz 
ing  eyes. 

"  Write  to  my  mother,"  he  said  weakly. 
"  Don't  say  you  are  not  a  man.  Only  say  you 
are  not  an  allopath  —  and  that  I  have  given  my 
case  unreservedly  to  you.  Tell  her  not  to  worry. 
Give  her  ray  love.  Tell  her  "  — 

And  with  this  he  fainted  quite  away. 

This  faint  was  the  prelude  to  a  hard  pull. 
Days  of  alternate  syncope  and  delirium  followed. 
Short  intervals  of  consciousness  found  him  quiet, 
but  alarmingly  weak.  His  early  anxiety  had 
ceased  to  manifest  itself.  He  yielded  to  the  treat 
ment  he  received  without  criticism  or  demur.  In 
fact,  he  was  too  ill  to  do  anything  else.  This  con 
dition  lasted  for  more  than  a  week. 

One  day  he  awoke,  conscious  and  calm.  It  was 
a  sunny  day.  There  seemed  to  be  a  faint  woody 
perfume  in  the  room,  from  some  source  unknown. 
A  long,  narrow  block  of  light  lay  yellow  on  the 
stiff-patterned  brown  carpet ;  it  was  by  no  means, 
however,  a  cheap  carpet.  There  was  an  expensive 
red  and  gold  paper  on  the  walls,  and  marble- 
topped  furniture.  There  were  two  pictures.  One 
was  a  framed  certificate  setting  forth  the  fact  of 
Mr.  Butterwell's  honored  and  honorable  career  as 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  49 

a  Freemason.  The  other  was  an  engraving  of 
the  Sistine  Madonna.  Yorke  had  hardly  noticed 
the  contents  of  his  room  before.  He  observed 
these  details  with  the  vivid  interest  of  a  newly- 
made  invalid,  wondering  how  long  he  was  likely 
to  lie  and  look  at  them.  As  his  eye  wandered 
weakly  about  the  room  it  rested  upon  the  bureau, 
which  stood  somewhat  behind  him.  A  vase  of 
yellow  Austrian  glass  was  on  the  bureau  ;  it  held 
a  spray  of  apple-blossoms. 

While  he  lay  breathing  in  their  delicate  outlines 
like  a  perfume,  and  feeling  their  perfume  like  a 
color,  the  half-opened  door  pushed  gently  in,  and 
a  woman  —  a  lady  —  entered  with  a  quickstep. 
She  was  a  young  lady ;  or  at  least  she  was  under 
thirty.  She  stopped  on  seeing  that  he  was  awake, 
and  the  two  regarded  each  other.  She  saw  a  very 
haggard-looking  young  fellow,  with  a  sane  eye  and 
a  wan  smile.  He  saw  a  blooming  creature.  She 
had  her  hat  on  and  driving-gloves  in  her  hand 
Her  face  was  sensitive  with  pleasure  at  the  change 
in  the  patient.  She  advanced  towards  him  heartily, 
holding  out  her  hand.  He  said,  — 

"  Are  you  the  doctor  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What  is  —  excuse  me  —  but,  madam,  I  don't 
know  your  name." 
4 


50  DOCTOK   ZAY. 

"  My  name  is  Lloyd.     You  are  better  to-day  !  " 

"  Infinitely  !  Wait,  please  ....  I  have  seen 
you  before.  Where  have  I  seen  you  ?  " 

"  Three  times  a  day  for  a  week,  without  count 
ing  the  nights,"  said  the  young  lady,  with  mis 
chief  in  her  voice.  She  had  a  pleasant  voice. 
She  spoke  a  little  too  quickly,  perhaps.  She 
stood  beside  his  bed.  She  stood  erect  and  strong. 
Her  hair  was  dark,  and  she  had  rather  large,  dark 
blue  eyes.  He  thought  it  was  a  fine,  strong  face  ; 
he  did  not  know  but  it  might  be  safe  to  call  it 
beautiful.  She  wore  a  blue  flannel  dress. 

"  I  know  !  "  he  said  suddenly.  "  You  are  the 
caryatid." 

"  What,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  blue  caryatid  —  Never  mind.  I 
am  not  deranged  again.  Have  I  been  very  crazy  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,"  said  the  lady  gravely.  Her  ex 
pression  and  manner  had  changed.  She  sat  down 
beside  him  and  opened  her  medicine-case,  which 
she  laid  upon  the  table.  Pie  smiled  when  he  saw 
the  tiny  vials.  She  either  did  not  observe  or  did 
not  return  the  smile.  Her  face  had  settled  into 
an  intent  and  studious  form,  like  a  hardening  cast. 
He  thought,  $he  is  not  beautiful. 

She  took  out  her  note-book,  and  began  to  ask 
him  a  series  of  professional  questions.  She  spoke 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  51 

with  the  distinct  but  rapid  enunciation  which  he 
had  noticed  before.  She  wrote  down  his  answers 
carefully.  Many  of  her  questions  were  more  per 
sonal  than  he  had  expected;  he  was  not  used' to 
what  Mrs.  Butterwell  called  "doctoring."  This 
young  lady  required  his  age,  his  habits,  family 
history,  and  other  items  not  immediately  con 
nected  in  the  patient's  mind  with  a  dislocated 
ankle. 

"  Now  your  pulse,  please,"  she  said,  when  she 
had  reached  the  end  of  her  catechism.  She  took 
his  wrist  in  a  business-like  way.  The  young  man 
experienced  a  certain  embarrassment.  The  phy 
sician  gave  evidence  of  none.  She  laid  his  hand 
down  again,  as  if  it  had  been  a  bottle  or  a  band 
age,  told  him  that  she  was  greatly  gratified  with 
his  marked  improvement,  prepared  his  powders, 
and,  drawing  the  little  rubber  clasp  over  her  medi 
cine-case,  gave  him  to  understand  by  her  motion 
and  manner  that  she  considered  the  consultation 
at  an  end. 

"  One  powder  in  six  tablespoon fuls  of  water ; 
one  tablespoonful  every  four  hours,"  she  said,  ris 
ing.  "  Are  you  quite  able  to  remember  ?  Or  I 
will  speak  to  Mrs.  Butterwell  myself  as  I  go  out. 
She  will  be  with  you  soon,  and  I  have  directed 
that  some  one  shall  be  within  call  whenever  you 


52  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

are  left  alone.     You  do  not  object  to  being  alone 
somewhat  ?  " 

"  I  like  it." 

"  I  was  sure  of  it.  I  prefer  you  to  be  alone  as 
much  as  you  can  bear  now.  But  you  will  not  be 
neglected.  I  will  see  you  again  at  night." 

"  I  should  like  to  talk  with  you  a  little,"  stam 
mered  Yorke,  hardly  knowing  what  was  the  eti 
quette  of  this  anomalous  position.  "  Cannot  you 
stay  longer  ?  " 

She  looked  at  her  watch,  hesitated,  and  sat 
down  again. 

"  I  can  give  you  a  few  minutes.  I  have  a  busy 
day  before  me." 

1   "  Did  you  write  to  my  mother,"  began  the  pa 
tient,  "  and  what  has  she  answered  ?  " 

"  If  you  go  on  improving  at  this  rate,  you  may 
read  your  letters  to-morrow,  Mr.  Yorke." 

"  Not  to-day  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  are  arbitrary,  Miss  —  Dr.  Lloyd." 

She  gave  him  a  cool,  keen  look. 

"  That  is  my  business,"  she  said. 

"  What  has  been  the  matter  with  me  ?  "  per 
sisted  the  young  man.  "  What  are  my  injuries? 
I  wish  to  know." 

"  A  dislocation  of  the  ankle ;  a  severed  artery 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  53 

in  the  arm ;  and  concussion  of  the  brain,  —  be 
sides  the  minor  cuts  attendant  on  such  an  accident 
as  yours.  Each  of  these  is  doing  finely.  You 
have  now  no  cause  for  alarm.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  dislocation!"  added  the  physician,  with  en 
thusiasm. 

"Have  I  been  dangerously  ill?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  had  consultation  ?  " 

"  By  telegraph  every  day,  your  worst  days  ;  by 
letter  when  I  have  thought  you  would  feel  easier 
to  know  that  I  had  it." 

"  How  soon  shall  I  be  about  again  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  promise  you  anything  at  present. 
You  are  doing  remarkably  well.  But  you  will 
have  occasion  for  patience,  sir." 

"  I  must  have  seemed  very  rude  —  or  —  dis 
trustful  of  you,  at  the  first." 

"  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Yorke,  you  have  shown 
me  every  reasonable  confidence,  —  far  more  than 
I  could  have  expected  under  the  circumstances.  I 
have  appreciated  it." 

That  sensitiveness  had  come  into  her  face  a<rain  : 

O  " 

she  gave  him  a  direct,  full  look  ;  and  he  thought 
once  more  that  she  was  a  beautiful  woman. 

"  Believe,"  he  said  earnestly,  "that  I  am  grate 
ful  to  you,  madam." 


54  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

She  smiled  indulgently,  bowed,  and  left  him. 
He  heard  her  quick  step  in  the  hall,  and  her  voice 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Butterwell ;  then  he  heard  her 
chirrup  to  her  pony,  and  the  sound  of  wheels. 
She  drove  rapidly,  and  was  soon  gone. 

The  day  passed  in  the  faint,  sweet,  hazy  way 
that  only  the  convalescent  knows.  No  other  crea 
ture  ever  gets  behind  that  glamour.  Returning  life 
paces  towards  one  so  solemnly  that  the  soul  would 
keep  upon  its  knees,  were  it  not  so  weak  ;  one 
dares  not  pray ;  one  ventures  only  to  see  the  frolic 
in  the  eyes  of  the  advancing  power,  and  dashes 
into  joy  as  bees  into  rhythm,  or  as  flowers  into 
color.  Waldo  Yorke  was  very  happy.  He  thought 
of  his  mother  ;  his  heart  was  full.  He  looked  at 
the  block  of  yellow  light  upon  the  carpet ;  at  the 
apple-blossoms  in  the  vase ;  at  the  patch  of  June 
sky  that  burned  beyond  that  one  open  window. 
Life  and  light,  he  thought,  are  here. 

Mrs.  Isaiah  Butterwell,  however,  was  there  too. 
She  was  extremely  kind.  She  entertained  the 
young  man  with  a  graphic  account  of  his  accident 
and  its  consequences.  Mr.  Butterwell  himself 
came  in,  for  a  moment,  and  briefly  considei'ed  it 
(although  the  Bangor  horse  was  killed)  a  lucky 
thing. 

"  When  he  brought  you  home,"  observed  the 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  55 

lady,  "  I  said,  '  He  's  dead.'  I  must  say  I  hoped 
you  were,  for  I  said  to  my  husband,  '  He  '11  be  an 
idiot  if  he  lives.'  It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  the 
Creator  was  thinking  he  had  n't  made  enough  of 
'em,  after  all,  and  was  watching  opportunities  to 
increase  the  stock.  But  our  doctor  's  been  a  match 
for  him  this  time  !  "  added  Mrs.  Isaiah,  with  a 
snap  of  her  soft  eyes. 

"  Why,  —  Sar-ah  !  "  rebuked  her  husband, 
gently. 

"  Well,  she  has  !  "  insisted  Sarah  ;  "  and  I  don't 
see  the  harm.  He  made  her,  too,  I  suppose,  did  n't 
he  ?  I  think  he  ought  to  be  proud  of  her.  I  've 
no  doubt  he  is,  —  not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"  Why,  /Sarah  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Butterwell.  He 
had  the  air  of  being  just  as  much  surprised  by 
these  little  conversational  peculiarities  in  his  con 
sort  as  if  he  had  not  wintered  and  summered  them 
for  better  and  worse  for  forty  years.  This  amused 
the? invalid.  He  liked  to  hear  them  talk.  He  was 
so  happy  that  day  that  Mrs.  Isaiah  seemed  to  him 
really  very  witty.  He  drew  her  out.  She  dwelt  a 
good  deal  upon  the  doctor.  She  explained  to  him 
her  difficulty  in  concealing  the  fact  of  the  physi 
cian's  sex  from  him  those  first  few  days. 

"  I  would  not  tell  a  fib  for  you,  Mr.  Yorke,  even 
if  you  did  die.  And  when  you  ran  on  so  about 


50  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

seeing  the  doctor,  I  was  hard  up.  I  could  n't  say 
'  she,'  and  I  would  n't  say  '  he,'  for  she  was  n't  a 
'he,'  now  was  she  ?  Once  I  got  stuck  in  the  mid 
dle  of  a  sentence ;  and  Mr.  Butterwell  was  here, 
and  I  said,  '  Sh  —  Isaiah  !  —  he  ;  '  so  I  cut  the 
word  in  two,  don't  you  see  ?  Only  I  spelled  it 
with  an  extra  h.  But  I  *d  rather  sacrifice  my 
spellin'  than  my  conscience  And  Isaiah  asked 
me  afterwards  what  I  sh-shd  him  up  for,  when  he 
had  n't  opened  his  mouth.  He  did  n't  open  it 
very  often  while  you  were  sick,  Mr.  Yorke.  But 
he  spoke  about  your  uncle,  and  was  blue  enough. 
I  had  to  make  up  my  mind  to  do  the  talking  for 
two  when  I  married  Mr.  Butterwell.  What  time 
did  Doctor  Zay  say  she  should  look  in  again,  Mr. 
Yorke?" 

"  Doctor  Zay  ?"  repeated  the  young  gentleman 
blankly. 

"  Oh,  we  call  her  Doctor  Zay.  You  see  there 
were  two  of  them,  she  and  the  old  man  ;  and,  as 
luck  would,  they  must  have  the  same  name.  I 
suppose  he  was  ashamed  of  his,  —  Adoniram  ;  I 
don't  blame  him.  At  any  rate,  there  's  the  sign, 
'  Dr.  A.  Lloyd.'  And  she  has  some  kind  of  a 
heathen  name  herself  ;  I  never  can  pronounce  it ; 
so  she  takes  to  '  Dr.  Z.  A.  Lloyd,'  and  that 's  how 
we  come  by  it.  Everybody  calls  her  Doctor  Za. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  57 

But  she  spells  it  with  a  y  herself.  We  love  the 
sound  of  it,"  added  Mrs.  Butterwell  gently.  "  So 
would  you,  if  you  'd  been  a  woman  Down  East, 
and  she  the  first  one,  of  all  you  'd  read  about  and 
needed,  you  'd  ever  seen." 

"But  I'm  not  a  woman,"  interrupted  the 
patient,  laughing.  "  I  can't  call  her  Doctor  Zay. 
The  young  lady  has  done  admirably  by  me ;  I  '11 
admit  that.  How  much  I  must  have  troubled  her, 
to  come  here  so  often  !  " 

"  I  would  n't  waste  your  feelings,  sir,"  observed 
Mrs.  Butterwell,  dryly.  "  Feelings  are  too  rich 
cream  to  be  skimmed  for  nothing.  Doctor  would 
have  done  her  duty  by  you,  anyhow ;  but  it 's 
been  less  of  a  sacrifice,  considering  she  lives  here." 

The  subsiding  expression  of  weariness  on  the 
sick  man's  face  rose  to  one  of  interest.  He  re 
peated,  "Lives  here?"  not  without  something 
like  energy. 

"  Yes,  I  've  had  her  a  year.  She  was  starving 
at  the  Sherman  Hotel,  and  I  took  her  in.  I  used 
to  go  to  school  with  some  connections  of  hers,  so  I 
felt  a  kind  of  responsibility  for  her.  And  then 
I  'in  always  glad  of  society,  as  I  told  you  when  I 
took  you.  I  'm  social  in  my  nature.  I  suppose 
that 's  why  Providence  went  out  of  his  way  to 
marry  me  to  Mr.  Butterwell.  If  my  lot  had  been 


58  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

cast  in  Portland,  or  Bangor,  I  'm  afraid  I  should 
have  been  frivolous,  as  I  said  to  Doctor  Zay,  the 
first  time  I  saw  her,  —  it  was  chilblains ;  I  thought 
I  could  trust  her;  I  didn't  know  her  then,  you 
see.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  did  n't  notice  her 
sign?  Then,  if  she  'd  got  sick  at  the  hotel  they  'd 
have  said  she  was  A  WOMAN.  I  had  the  cause  to 
consider,"  added  Mrs.  Butterwell,  solemnly. 

The  physician  came  again  at  night,  as  she  had 
promised.  She  was  later  than  usual.  Yorke 
listened  for  her  wheels,  and  got  restless.  It  made 
him  nervous  when  the  country  wagons  rolled  up 
and  rumbled  by.  He  had  flushed  with  the  end  of 
the  day,  and  was  feverish  and  miserable.  He  at 
tended  to  his  sensations  anxiously.  He  wished  she 
would  come.  It  was  quite  dark  when  the  low 
wheels  of  the  phaeton  came  smoothly  and  sud 
denly  to  a  stop  in  the  great  back  yard;  he  heard 
the  doctor's  voice  speaking  cheerily  to  her  boy. 
"  Handy,"  she  called  him.  Handy  took  the  horse ; 
a  light  step  passed  the  corner  of  the  house,  and 
vanished.  "  She  must  have  gone  on  to  the  office 
door,"  thought  Yorke.  He  found  himself  ab 
sorbed  in  a  little  uneasiness  ;  he  wondered  if  she 
•would  take  her  tea  first. 

She  did  not.  She  came  to  him  directly.  Her 
things  were  off ;  her  hair  smoothly  brushed ;  she 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  59 

stood  beside  him,  her  pleasant  figure,  in  its  house- 
dress,  cut  against  the  light  that  fell  through  the 
open  door.  She  began  at  once :  "  There  are 
patients  in  the  office,  —  I  am  late;  I  was  detained 
by  a  troublesome  case.  I  can  give  you  five  min 
utes  now,  or  come  back  when  they  are  gone.  Let 
me  see  !  "  She  went  out  and  brought  the  lamp, 
scrutinized  his  face  closely,  sat  down,  and  felt  his 
pulse  ;  she  did  not  count  it,  but  quickly  laid  his 
hand  aside. 

"  Please  come  by  and  by,"  urged  the  young 
man.  Already  he  felt  unaccountably  better.  "  I 
can  wait."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said, 
"  Very  well,"  and  left  him.  She  was  gone  half 
an  hour. 

"  Have  you  had  your  supper  ?  "  asked  Yorke, 
when  she  came  back. 

"  Oh,  my  supper  is  used  to  waiting,"  said  Doc 
tor  Zay,  cheerfully.  "  You  have  waited  quite  long 
enough,  sir.  Now,  if  you  please,  to  business." 

The  note-book,  the  pencil,  the  medicine-case, 
and  the  somewhat  stolid,  studious  look  presented 
themselves  at  once.  Yorke  felt  half  amused,  halt' 
annoyed.  He  wanted  to  be  talked  to,  as  if  she 
had  been  like  other  women.  He  thought  it  would 
do  him  more  good  than  the  aconite  pellets  which 
she  prepared  so  confidingly.  He  was  just  enough 


60  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

better  to  begin  to  be  homesick.  He  asked  her  if 
he  might  try  to  walk  to-morrow.  She  promptly 
replied  in  the  negative. 

"  I  must  walk  next  week,"  urged  the  patient, 
setting  a  touch  of  his  natural  imperiousuess  against 
her  own.  She  gave  him  one  of  her  composed 
looks. 

"  You  will  walk,  Mr.  Yorke,  when  I  allow  you," 
she  said,  courteously  enough.  She  looked  so 
graceful  and  gentle  and  womanly,  sitting  there  be 
side  him,  that  all  the  man  in  him  rebelled  at  her 
authority.  Their  eyes  met,  and  clashed. 

"  When  will  that  be  ? "  he  insisted,  with  a 
creditable  effort  at  submission. 

"  A  dislocated  ankle  is  not  to  be  used  in  ten 
days,"  replied  the  doctor  quietly.  "  It  is  going 
to  take  time." 

"  How  much  time  ?  " 

"  That  depends  partly  on  yourself,  partly  on 
me,  a  little  on  "  — 

"  Providence  ?  "  interrupted  Yorke. 

"  Not  at  all.  God  made  the  ankle,  you  dis 
located  it,  I  set  it ;  nature  must  heal  it." 

"  Mrs.  Butterwell  might  have  said  that." 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  the  young  lady,  with  a 
change  of  manner,  "  that  I  am  growing  to  talk 
like  Mrs.  Butterwell  ?  " 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  61 

This  was  the  first  personal  accent  which  Yorke 
had  caught  in  the  doctor's  voice.  Thinking,  per 
haps,  to  pursue  a  faint  advantage,  which  he 
vaguely  felt  would  be  of  interest  to  him  when  he 
grew  stronger  and  had  nothing  else  to  do  but 
study  this  young  woman,  he  proceeded  irrel 
evantly  :  — 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  stayed  here,  till  to 
day.  It  has  been  fortunate  for  me.  It  will  be 
more  fortunate  still,  if  you  are  going  to  keep  me 
on  this  bed  all  summer.  Our  hostess  has  been 
talking  of  you.  She  gave  you  such  a  pretty 
name  !  I  Ve  forgotten  exactly  what  it  was." 

"  We  will  move  you  to  the  lounge  to-morrow," 
replied  the  doctor,  rising.  Yorke  made  no  an 
swer.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  too  sick  a  man  to  be 
snubbed.  He  found  it  more  natural  to  think  that 
his  overthrown  strength  ought  to  have  appealed 
to  her  chivalry,  than  to  question  if  he  had  pre 
sumed  upon  the  advantage  which  it  gave  him.  In 
the  subdued  light  of  the  sick-room  all  the  values 
of  his  face  were  deepened  ;  he  looked  whiter  for 
its  setting  of  black  hair,  and  his  eyes  darker  for 
the  pallor  through  which  they  burned.  But  the 
doctor  was  not  an  artist.  She  observed,  and  said 
to  herself,  "  That  is  a  cinchona  look." 

She  moved  the  night-lamp,  gave  a  few  orders, 


62  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

herself  adjusted  liis  window  and  blinds,  and,  step 
ping  lightly,  left  him.  She  did  not  go  out-of-doors, 
but  crossed  the  hall,  and  disappeared  in  her  own 
part  of  the  house.  He  heard,  soon  after,  what  he 
now  knew  to  be  the  office-bell.  It  rang  four  or 
five  times  ;  and  he  heard  the  distant  feet  of  pa 
tients  on  the  graveled  walk  that  led  to  her  door. 
After  this  there  was  silence,  and  he  thought, 
"  They  have  let  her  alone  to  rest  now."  It  had 
not  occurred  to  him  before  that  she  could  be  tired. 
He  was  restless,  and  did  not  sleep  easily,  and 
waked  often.  Once,  far  on  in  the  night  he 
thought  it  must  have  been,  a  noise  in  the  back 
yard  roused  him.  It  was  Handy  rolling  out  the 
basket  phaeton.  Yorke  heard  whispers  and 
hushed  footfalls,  and  then  the  brisk  trot  of  the 
gray  pony.  There  was  a  lantern  on  the  phaeton, 
which  went  flashing  by  his  window,  and  crossed 
his  wall  with  bright  bars  like  those  of  a  golden 
prison.  He  wished  the  blinds  were  open.  He 
thought,  "  Now  they  have  called  that  poor  girl 
out  again ! ''  He  pictured  the  desolate  Maine 
roads.  A  vision  of  the  forest  pi'esented  itself  to 
him  :  the  great  throat  of  blackness  ;  the  outline  of 
near  things,  wet  leaves,  twigs,  fern-clumps,  and 
fallen  logs  ;  patches  of  moss  and  lichens,  green 
and  gray ;  and  the  light  from  the  lonely  carriage 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  63 

streaming  out ;  above  it  the  solitary  figure  of  the 
caryatid,  courageous  and  erect.  He  hoped  the 
boy  went  with  her.  He  listened  some  time  to 
hear  her  return,  but  she  did  not  come. 

When  he  awoke  again  it  was  about  seven 
o'clock.  He  was  faint,  and  while  he  was  ringing 
for  his  beef-tea,  the  phaeton  came  into  the  yard. 

"  Put  up  the  pony,  Handy,"  he  heard  her  say  ; 
"  she  is  tired  out.  Give  me  Old  Oak,  to-day." 

Yorke  listened,  feeling  the  strength  of  a  new 
sensation.  Was  it  possible  that  this  young  woman 
had  practice  enough  to  keep  two  horses  ?  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  natural  history  of  cloctresses. 
He  had  thought  of  them  chiefly  as  a  species  of 
higher  nurse, — poor  women,  who  wore  unbecom 
ing  clothes,  took  the  horse-cars,  and  probably 
dropped  their  "  #'s,"  or  said,  "  Is  that  so  ?  " 

It  was  later  than  usual,  that  morning,  when 
Doctor  Zay  came  round  to  him.  It  was  another 
of  those  sentient,  vivid  June  days,  and  the  block 
of  light  on  the  brown  carpet  seemed  to  throb  as 
she  crossed  it.  The  apple-blossoms  on  the  bureau 
had  begun  to  droop.  She  herself  looked  pale. 

"You  are  tired!"  began  the  patient  impul 
sively. 

"  I  have  been  up  all  night,"  said  the  doctor 
shortly.  She  sat  down  with  the  indefinable  air 


64  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

which,  holds  all  personalities  at  arms-length,  and 
went  at  once  to  work.  She  examined  the  wounded 
arm,  she  bathed  and  bandaged  the  injured  foot; 
she  had  him  moved  to  the  lounge,  with  Mr.  But- 
terwell's  assistance.  She  was  incommunicative  as 
a  beautiful  and  obedient  machine.  Yorke  longed 
to  ask  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  but  he  did 
not  dare.  He  felt  sorry  to* see  her  look  so  worn  ; 
but  he  perceived  that  she  did  not  require  his 
sympathy.  She  looked  more  delicate  for  her 
weariness,  which  seemed  to  be  subtly  at  odds  with 
her  professional  manner.  He  would  have  liked 
to  ask  her  a  great  many  things,  but  her  abstrac 
tion  forbade  him.  He  contented  himself  with  the 
pathological  ground  upon  which  alone  it  was 
practicable  to  meet  this  exceptional  young  woman, 
and  renewed  his  entreaties  to  be  allowed  to  use 
his  foot. 

"You  do  not  trust  me,"  she  said,  suddenly,  lay 
ing  down  the  sponge  with  which  she  had  been 
bathing  his  arm. 

"  You  wrong  me,  Doctor  Lloyd.  I  think  I  have 
proved  that  I  do," 

"That  is  true.  You  have,"  she  said,  softening. 
"  Trust  me  a  while  longer,  then.  No.  Stay.  Put 
your  foot  down,  if  you  want  to.  Gently  —  slowly 
—  but  put  it  down." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  65 

He  did  so.  A  low  outcry  escaped  him  ;  lie  grew 
very  pale. 

"  Now  put  it  back,"  said  the  doctor  grimly. 
But  with  that  she  melted  like  frost,  and  shone  ; 
she  hovered  over  him  ;  all  the  tenderness  of  the 
healer  suffused  her  reticent  face. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  let  you  hurt  yourself,  but  you 
will  feel  better ;  you  will  obey  me  now.  Is  the 
pain  still  so  sharp  ?  Give  me  the  foot."  As  if 
it  had  been  her  property,  she  took  the  aching 
ankle  in  her  warm,  strong,  and  delicate  hands, 
and  for  a  few  moments  rubbed  it  gently  and 
gravely  ;  the  pain  subsided  under  her  touch. 

"  What  am  I  going  to  do  ?  "  cried  Yorke,  de 
spairingly. 

"  You  are  going  to  do  admirably,  Mr.  Yorke,  on 
invention  for  a  while,  on  courage  by  and  by.  Your 
crutches  will  be  here  to-morrow  night." 

Waldo  Yorke  looked  at  the  young  lady  with  a 
kind  of  loyal  helplessness.  He  felt  so  subdued  by 
his  anomalous  position  that,  had  she  said,  "  I  have 
sent  to  Bangor  for  your  work-basket,"  or,  "  to 
Omaha  for  your  wife,"  he  would  scarcely  have  ex 
perienced  surprise.  He  repeated,  "  My  crutches  ?  " 
in  a  vague,  submissive  tone. 

"  I  sent  to  Bangor  for  a  pair  of  Whittemore 
crutches  three  days  ago,"  replied  the  doctor  quietly. 


6G  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  I  should  not  want  yon  to  use  them  before  to-mor 
row.  The  stage  will  bring  them  at  five  o'clock. 
If  I  should  be  out,  do  not  meddle  with  them.  No, 
on  the  whole,  I  had  them  addressed  to  myself.  I 
wish  to  be  present  when  you  try  them.  One  pow 
der  dry  on  the  tongue,  if  you  please,  every  four 
hours.  Good-morning." 

"  Don't  go,  please,"  pleaded  the  young  man ; 
"  it  is  so  lonely  to  be  sick." 

An  amused  expression  settled  between  her  fine, 
level  brows.  She  made  no  reply.  He  realized 
that  he  had  said  an  absurd  thing.  He  remem 
bered  into  how  many  sick-rooms  she  must  bring 
her  bloom  and  bounteousness,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  fortunate  life  he  understood  how  cor 
rosive  is  the  need  of  the  sick  for  the  well.  He 
remembered  that  he  was  but  one  of  —  how  many? 
dependent  and  complaining  creatures,  draining 
upon  the  life  of  a  strong  and  busy  woman.  He 
let  her  go  in  silence.  He  turned  his  fa,ce  over  to 
wards  the  back  of  the  lounge  ;  it  was  a  black 
hair-cloth  lounge.  "  I  must  look  as  if  I  were 
stretched  on  a  bier,  here,"  thought  the  young  man 
irritably.  All  his  youth  and  vigor  revolted  from 
the  tedious  convalescence,  which  it  was  clear  this 
fatally  wise  young  woman  foresaw,  but  was  too 
shrewd  to  discuss  with  him.  He  remembered, 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  67 

with  a  kind  of  awe,  some  invalid  friends  of  his 
mother's.  One  lay  on  a  bed  in  Chestnut  Street 
for  fifteen  years.  He  recalled  a  man  he  met  in 
the  Tyrol  once,  who  broke  his  knee-pan  in  a  gym 
nasium,  —  was  crippled  for  life.  Yorke  had  al 
ways  found  him  a  trifle  tiresome.  He  wished  he 
had  been  kinder  to  the  fellow,  who,  he  remem 
bered,  had  rather  a  lonely  look.  Yorke  was  re 
ceiving  that  enlargement  and  enlightenment  of 
the  imagination  which  it  is  the  privilege  of  en 
durance  alone,  of  all  forms  of  human  assimilation, 
to  bestow  upon  us.  Experience  may  almost  be 
called  a  faculty  of  the  soul. 

He  was  interesting  himself  to  the  best  of  his 
brave  ability  in  this  commendable  train  of  thought, 
when  something  white  fluttered  softly  between  his 
heroically  dismal  face  and  the  pall  of  smooth  hair 
cloth  to  which  he  had  limited  his  horizon.  It  was 
a  letter,  and  was  followed  by  another,  and  another, 
—  his  mother's  letters.  The  big,  weak,  tender 
fellow  caught  them,  like  a  lover,  to  his  lips — they 
had  taken  him  so  suddenly  —  before  he  became 
aware  that  they  fell  from  a  delicately-gloved  hand 
suspended  between  him  and  Mrs.  Butterwell's 
striped  wall.  He  turned,  as  the  doctor  was  hur 
rying  away,  quickly  enough  —  for  he  was  growing 
stronger  every  hour  —  to  snatch  from  her  face  a 


68  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

kind  of  maternal  gentleness,  a  beautiful  look.  She 
was  brooding  over  him  with  this  little  pleasure  ; 
he  felt  how  glad  she  was  to  give  it..  But  instantly 
an  equally  beautiful  merriment  darted  over  the 
upper  part  of  the  doctor's  face,  deepening  ray 
within  ray  through  the  blue  circles  of  her  eyes, 
like  the  spark  in  the  aureola  of  ripples  where  a 
shell  has  struck  the  sea. 

"  Another  fit  of  the  sulks  to-day,  if  you  dare  !  " 
she  said,  and,  evanescent  as  an  uncaptured  fancy, 
she  was  gone. 


IV. 


WALDO  YOBKE  was  right  in  foreseeing  for  him 
self  a  tedious  recovery.  Had  he  at  that  time  known 
the  full  extent  of  the  shock  he  had  undergone, 
that  beautiful  submission  to  the  inevitable  which 
he  flattered  himself  he  was  cultivating  to  an  ex 
tent  that  might  almost  be  called  feminine,  and  as 
suredly  was  super-masculine,  would  have  received 
an  important  check.  To  his  perplexed  inquiries 
about  certain  annoying  symptoms  in  the  head  and 
spine,  his  medical  adviser  returned  that  finely- 
constituted  reply  which  is  the  historic  solace  and 
resource  of  the  profession,  —  that  he  had  received 
a  nervous  strain.  This  is  a  phrase  which  stands 
with  a  few  others  (notably  among  them  "  the  tis 
sues,"  "  the  mucous  membrane,"  arid  "  debility"), 
that  science  keeps  on  hand  as  a  drop-curtain  be 
tween  herself  and  a  confiding  if  expectant  laity. 

The  young  man  got  upon  his  crutches  in  the 
course  of  the  week,  but  kept  his  room.  He  dis 
covered  the  measure  of  his  feebleness  by  the  meas 
ure  of  his  effort.  He  wrote  cheerfully  to  Boston 
about  both.  In  fact,  he  found  himself  more  cheer- 


70  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

ful  than  one  would  have  expected  to  be,  under  his 
really  unusual  circumstances.  He  wrote  that 
Mrs.  Butterwell  read  to  him,  and  asked  for  more 
books.  He  deprecated  distinctly  a  modest  ma 
ternal  plan  for  proposing  to  the  eminent  Dr.  Full- 
koffer  to  travel  from  Boston  to  Sherman  to  consult 
with  the  local  physician.  He  assured  his  mother 
that  he  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  his 
treatment.  He  still,  from  motives  of  consideration, 
neglected  to  reply  to  her  minute  inquiries  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  practitioner. 

"  My  mother  wants  to  know  whether  he  is 
'  high  '  or  '  low.'  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  And  are  you  a  gentleman  or  a  quack  ? 
And  does  he  '  alternate,'  —  what 's  that  ?  And 
does  he  use  '  attenuations,'  —  do  you  ?  — and  some 
thing  —  I  forget  what  —  about  what  she  calls 
'  triturations.'  It  seems  to  be  a  very  important 
point.  I  was  not  to  omit  to  answer  it.  Then 
there  was  a  treatise  on  —  I  think  she  called  them 
'aggravations.'  Don't  go  just  yet,  Doctor  Zay  — 
I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  get  so  used  to  it  with  Mrs. 
Butterwell." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  she  said,  with  her  gentler 
manner  ;  it  was  one  of  her  easy  days,  and  she  had 
leisure  to  be  kind. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me,"  pleaded   Yorke, 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  71 

"  if  you  don't  mind,  how  you  came  to  have  such 
an  uncommon  supply  of  initials.  I  've  never  even 
heard  your  name." 

"  Atalanta,"  said  the  doctor,  looking  up  pleas 
antly  from  the  powder-paper  she  was  folding  with 
mathematical  precision.  He  always  liked  to  see 
her  fold  powders  ;  it  brought  all  the  little  delicate 
motions  of  her  firm  hands  into  play. 

"  Ah,  the  apple-blossom  ! "  said  Yorke  impul 
sively.  The  powder-paper  remained  for  an  in 
stant  motionless  in  Doctor's  Zay's  hand  ;  she 
turned  her  head  slightly  in  the  attitude  of  atten 
tion  towards  the  hair-cloth  sofa.  He  thought, 
"  She  meant  to  do  it."  Her  eyes  were  bent.  He 
thought  for  a  moment  he  could  see  the  mischief 
beneath  the  lids,  and  that  she  would  ripple  into 
frolic  over  his  daring  speech,  like  any  other  young 
lady.  Nothing  of  the  sort  happened.  The  doc 
tor's  countenance  presented  a  strictly  scientific 
basis.  "  She  dropped  it  by  accident,"  said  Yorke. 

He  contented  himself  with  observing  that  it 
was  an  unusual  name. 

"  I  had  a  mother  who  liked  the  name,"  pro 
ceeded  the  doctor,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  and 
looking  over  his  head  out  of  the  window  into  the 
young  June  day.  "  When  I  was  a  baby  she  had 
this  fancy  for  romantic  names.  She  called  me 


72  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

Zaiclee,  to  begin  with.  Then  she  happened  on 
this.  She  always  said  it  was  cruelty  to  infants 
to  impose  names  on  them  about  which  they  were 
never  consulted,  and  I  should  have  my  choice  of 
either.  I  dropped  the  first,  till  I  came  here  to 
practice.  Then  I  had  to  make  some  compromise 
with  fate  as  regarded  Dr.  Adoniram.  There  was 
something  absurd  in  seeing  'Atalanta'  on  a  Down^ 
East  doctor's  shingle,  —  I  have  known  women  do 
such  things  in  that  way  !  I  had  a  classmate  who 
took  out  her  diploma  in  the  name  of  Oubbie  Smith, 
M.  D.  ;  and  there  was  one  who  was  let  loose  upon 
a  defenseless  public  as  Dr.  Teasie  Trial.  So  I 
had  recourse  to  the  discarded  initial.  My  patients 
have  made  a  pretty  use  of  it.  I  rather  like  it,  my 
self." 

She  gave  that  ominous  snap  to  the  elastic  on 
the  well-worn  green  morocco  medicine-case  which 
had  become  philosophically  associated  in  the  in 
valid's  mind  with  the  cessation  of  a  pleasure.  She 
was  going.  He  hurried  to  say,  — 

"  Do  you  object  to  telling  me  how  you  came  to 
settle  in  this  village  ?  There  are  so  many  things 
I  should  like  to  ask.  I  never  knew  a  lady  physi 
cian  before.  The  whole  thing  interests  me.  So 
it  will  my  mother  ;  she  is  familiar  with  such  sub 
jects.  I  believe  she  once  consulted  a  doctress  her- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  73 

self.  I  shall  tell  her  about  you  when  I  get  a  little 
better;  when  it  is  too  late  to  worry." 

"  I  will  give  you  any  facts  about  professional 
women  that  may  interest  you,  certainly,"  replied 
the  doctor,  rising,  "  when  I  have  time." 

"  You  never  have  time  !  "  cried  the  patient. 

"Have  I  neglected  you,  Mr.  Yorke?"  she  asked, 
coloring  slightly  ;  her  color  became  her.  She  wore 
a  black  dress  that  day,  of  almost  extravagantly 
fine  cashmere  ;  she  was  always  well  dressed.  There 
was  a  carmine  ribbon  around  her  high,  close  collar 
of  immaculate  linen.  The  fastidious  sick  man 
wondered  where  this  Down  East  doctress  had  her 
origin. 

o 

"  You  have  asked  me  all  sorts  of  personal  ques 
tions,"  he  went  on,  with  his  masculine  insistence. 
"  You  know  all  about  me." 

"It  is  my  business,"  said  the  doctor,  coldly,  "to 
know  all  about  you." 

"  In  other  words,  it  is  none  of  mine  to  feel  the 
faintest  human  curiosity  in  a  scientific  fact  like 
yourself.  Y^ou  are  candid,  Doctor  Lloyd." 

"  And  you  are  nervous,  Mr.  Yorke.  Good- 
morning.  I  will  send  Mrs.  Butterwell  to  read  to 
you." 

He  held  her  to  her  promise,  however  ;  and  the 
next  time  she  came  he  returned  to  the  subject.  It 


74  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

was  her  mood  to  be  tolerant  of  him  that  after 
noon  ;  indeed,  she  was  tolerant  of  everything.  She 
had  just  brought  a  patient  triumphantly  through 
a  mortal  attack  of  erysipelas :  she  had  been  a  good 
deal  worn  by  the  case  for  some  time  ;  now  her 
cruel  care  had  slipped  radiantly  from  her  young 
shoulders.  He  had  never  heard  her  talk  so  nat 
urally,  so  much  like  other  women.  It  seemed  to 
him  at  the  moment  as  if  she  were  really  com 
municative.  Afterwards,  he  remembered  how  lit 
tle  she  had  said ;  and  began  to  analyze  the  fine 
reserve  upon  which  all  her  ease  had  been  poised, 
like  the  pendulum  of  a  golden  clock  upon  its  axis. 
She  told  him  that  she  had  been  in  active  practice 
for  four  years ;  that  she  was  originally  a  Bangor 
girl ;  that  she  came  to  Sherman  for  a  complexity 
of  reasons  which  might  not  interest  him.  She 
paused  there,  as  if  there  were  nothing  more  to  be 
said. 

."  But  where  did  yea  get  your  medical  educa 
tion  ?  "  asked  Yorke.  "  I  don't  even  know  where 
such  things  are  to  be  had." 

"  At  New  York,  Zurich,  and  Vienna." 
"  But  why  did  you   select   this    wilderness   to 
bury  yourself  in  ?  "  lie  repeated,  his  surprise  over 
coming  his  civility.    "You  who  had  seen —     Is  it 
possible  you  ha,ve  been  abroad  ?  " 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  75 

She  laughed  outright  at  this,  but  did  not  other 
wise  comment  upon  it.  A  fine,  good-natured 
scorn  hovered  over  and  seemed  to  be  about  to  light 
upon  her.  He  perceived  at  what  a  disadvantage 
he  was  showing  himself;  he  might  as  well  have 
said  point-blank,  "I  thought  you  a  crude,  rural 
agitator."  He  felt  his  cheeks  burn  with  the  quick 
fever  of  illness,  while  she  went  on  indulgently  to 
say,  — 

"  I  used  to  come  here  summers,  once.  I  knew 
Mi-s.  Butterwell  and  some  people  here.  I  must 
make  my  blunders  somewhere.  And  then  I  had 
learned  how  terrible  is  the  need  of  a  woman  by 
women,  in  country  towns.  One  does  not  forget 
such  things,  who  ever  understands  them.  There 
is  refinement  and  suffering  and  waste  of  delicate 
life  enough  in  these  desolate  places  to  fill  a  circle 
in  the  Inferno.  You  do  not  know!"  she  said, 
with  rare  impetuousness.  '  No  one  knows,  Mr. 
Yorke,  but  the  woman  healer." 

"  What  led  you  to  see  it  ?  How  came  you  to 
want  to  see  it  ?  "  he  asked,  reverently.  "  How 
came  you  to  make  such  a  sacrifice  of  yourself  ?  — 
such  a  young,  bright  life  as  yours  !  I  cannot  un 
derstand  it." 

She  did  not  answer  him  at  once  ;  and  when  he 
raised  his  eyes  he  perceived  that  her  own  swam 


76  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

with  sudden  tears.  She  held  them  back  royally, 
commanded  herself,  and  answered  in  a  very  low 
voice  :  — 

"  It  was  owing  to  —  my  mother.  She  had  a 
painful  illness.  There  were  only  we  two.  I  took 
care  of  her  through  it  all.  She  spent  that  last 
summer  here  in  Sherman,  —  it  was  cool  here. 
She  suffered  so  from  the  hot  weather  !  My  mother 
was  greatly  comforted,  during  a  part  of  her  ill 
ness,  by  the  services  of  a  woman  doctor  in  Boston. 
There  was  one  when  we  were  in  Pnris,  too,  who 
helped  her.  I  said,  When  she  is  gone,  I  will  do 
as  much  for  some  one  else's  mother." 

Waldo  Yorke  was  lying  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head,  his  thin  face  upturned  towards 
her  while  she  spoke.  Pie  did  not  say  anything  ; 
but  his  sense  of  sympathy  with  this  lonely  woman 
vibrated  through  him  to  the  last  sick  nerve.  He 
had,  for  a  moment,  that  vague  consciousness  of 
gaining  an  unexpected  hold  upon  an  unknown 
privilege,  which  is  one  of  the  keenest  allurements 
and  bitterest  delusions  of  life.  He  dared  not 
speak,  lest  he  should  startle  her,  —  lest  he  should 
touch  the  rainbow  in  a  bubble.  She  saw  his  hand 
tremble  ;  her  manner  changed  at  once. 

"  And  so  I  became  a  doctor,"  she  said,  with  su 
perficial  cheerfulness.  "  Is  there  anything  more 
you  wanted  to  know  ?  " 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  77 

"I  want  to  know  everything,"  said  Yorke, in  an 
undertone.  She  ignored  this  little  slip,  as  she 
would  a  rise  in  his  pulse  after  dinner,  or  a  faint 
turn  on  a  hot  day. 

"  If  I  knew  what  kind  of  information  would  in 
terest  you,"  —  she  continued  good-naturedly,  "but 
I  have  had  a  very  simple  history.  It  is  like  that 
of  many  others  in  my  profession.  I  really  have 
nothing  to  tell.  It  came  to  me  the  more  easily 
because  I  always  had  a  taste  for  science ;  I  found 
that  out  in  my  Sophomore  year.  And  I  inherited 
it  besides." 

"  Sophomore?"  repeated  Yorke  vaguely. 

"  I  was  a  Vassar  girl,"  said  the  doctor  quietly. 

"  I  have  seen  educated  women  before,  though 
you  might  n't  think  it,"  returned  Yorke,  with  hu 
mility.  "  My  mother  has  them  at  the  house, 
sometimes.  I  never  saw  one  like  you.  I  never 
noticed  them  very  much." 

"You  must  have  been  too  preoccupied,  —  a 
young  man  in  your  arduous  profession,  Mr.  Yorke. 
I  can  readily  understand  that  you  would  have  lit 
tle  leisure  to  study  feminine  types." 

"  It  is  unfair  to  be  sarcastic  with  a  patient,  Doc 
tor  Lloyd  !  I  was  going  to  say  it  was  unmanly. 
I  have  never  been  busy  in  my  life.  You  know  it 
as  well  as  I  do." 


78  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

She  scintillated  for  an  instant  with  that  charm 
ing  merriment  she  had,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Instead  of  being  successful,  I  have  been  rich," 
he  said  bitterly.  "  If  I  had  had  to  work  for  a  liv 
ing,  I  might  have  been  worth  something.  There  is 
nothing  in  life  so  fatal  as  to  be  fortunate." 

"Ah,"  she  said  indifferently,  "do  you  think 
so?" 

"  Indeed  I  do." 

"  Have  you  had  that  stinging  pain  in  the  right 
side  of  the  head,  Mr.  Yorke  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  the  dizziness  you  complained  of  ?" 

"  A  good  deal.  How  many  years  did  you  study, 
Doctor  Lloyd?  Did  you  never  shrink, — never 
want  to  give  it  up  ?  " 

"  It  was  hard  sometimes  in  the  foreign  lecture- 
rooms,  among  the  men.  They  were  very  courte 
ous  to  me.  I  never  had  anything  to  complain  of. 
But  they  could  not  make  it  easy.  I  never  saw  a 
woman  rudely  treated  but  once ;  that  was  her 
own  fault.  Then  the  dissecting-room  was  a  trial 
to  me,  at  first.  It  would  have  been  easier  if  my 
mother  had  been  living  ;  if  I  could  have  gone 
home  and  talked  to  her.  I  was  only  twenty-one. 
But  courage,  like  muscle,  grows  by  exercise.  No ; 
I  never  wanted  to  turn  back." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  79 

"  How  many  years  did  you  study  ?  " 

"  Three  years  are  necessary  to  a  diploma  from 
any  reputable  school.  The  fourth  I  spent  abroad. 
But  of  course  one  always  studies.  That  is  one  of 
the  advantages  of  the  Maine  wilderness.  If  I  had 
settled  down  among  people  I  knew  in  a  town, 
there  would  have  been  too  many  minor  demands. 
It  is  never  even  a  professional  necessity,  down  here, 
to  get  into  one's  best  clothes  ;  and  there 's  been  but 
one  wedding  reception  since  I  've  been  here.  I 
went  to  that  on  my  way  to  a  scarlet-fever  patient. 
I  could  n't  come  afterwards,  with  the  risk.  I  did 
waste  a  pair  of  gloves,  but  I  went  in  my  woolen 
dress,  the  one  I  meant  to  sacrifice  to  that  case.  I 
do  miss  the  concerts,"  she  added ;  but  hastily  col 
lected  herself,  with  the  air  of  a  woman  who  had 
been  drawn  to  the  verge  of  a  grave  moral  impru 
dence. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  Boston,  —  to  stay,  I  mean  ?  " 
asked  Yorke. 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  it !  I  suppose  it  is  un 
pardonable  to  ask  where  you  were  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  said  pleasantly,  "I  used  to  stay  with 
different  people :  at  the  Shirleys'  sometimes,  and 
the  Waynes'.  I  saw  more  of  New  York  in  my 
gay  days  ;  we  had  more  relatives  there,  and  I 


80  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

liked  it  better  than  Boston.  I  used  to  be  at  the 
Garratts',  when  I  was  a  child.  They  were  very 
kind  to  me,  I  remember,  when  I  cried  because  I 
was  homesick  ;  they  never  noticed  me  at  the  time, 
but  always  gave  me  orange  marmalade  for  lunch 
eon  after  it.  When  I  got  home  I  used  to  feel  un 
appreciated,  because  tears  and  marmalade  did  not 
retain  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect." 

"  Is  it  possible,"  cried  Yorke,  "that you  are  the 
little  girl  from  somewhere  who  used  to  come  over 
to  our  house  with  Susy  Garratt,  once  in  a  while, 
to  blow  soap-bubbles  ?  You  had  two  long  braids 
of  black  hair,  and  blew  bigger  bubbles  than  I  did. 
I  hated  you." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  the  doctor,  laughing  as  she 
rose.  "  I  don't  remember  it.  I  have  n't  been  to 
the  Garratts'  for  years.  Or  anywhere  else,  for 
that  matter." 

"  You  have  had  better  things  to  do  than  to  blow 
our  soap-bubbles." 

She  nodded  gravely. 

"  How  many  times  have  you  walked  across  the 
room  to-day,  Mr.  York'e?" 

"  Oh,  wait  a  minute.     Don't  go  yet." 

"  How  many  times,  I  ask,  have  you  walked  about 
the  room  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ten,  I  believe,  —  yes,  ten." 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  81 

"  I  hope  to  get  you  out-of-doors  next  week. 
Are  you  suffering  from  restlessness  ?  Do  you  feel 
that  rebellion  you  spoke  of  at  the  tediousness  of 
the  case?  I  wish  I  could  hasten  your  convales 
cence." 

"I  don't,"  said  Yorke  bluntly,  "though  I  am 
rebellious  enough." 

She  swept  upon  him  the  full  fine  rebuke  of  her 
professional  look.  He  returned  it  with  a  certain 
defiance.  She  was  a  woman.  She  should  not 
thrust  him  aside  like  this. 

"  I  believe  I  shall  give  you  Nux,"  observed  the 
physician,  after  a  silence  which  the  patient  had 
felt  was  fraught  with  a  significance  he  could  hardly 
believe  she  failed  to  perceive  or  share.  He  flushed 
painfully. 

"  Doctor  Lloyd,"  he  demanded,  "did  you  ever 
have  a  man  for  a  patient  before  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  quietly.  "  I  am  treating  a  Mr. 
Bailey  now,  —  the  erysipelas  case  I  spoke  of.  His 
wife  is  a  patient  of  mine  ;  and  Bob,  the  boy,  and 
all  the  babies.  They  live  about  four  miles  out, 
beside  the  Black  Forest." 

"  Do  you  often  have  us  ?  "  persisted  Yorke. 

"I  do  not  desire  it, — no.  It  will  sometimes 
happen.  Most  of  my  patients  are  women  and 
children.  That  is  as  I  prefer  it." 


82  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

She  was  sweeping  away.  She  had  almost  a 
society  manner,  like  any  other  young  lady.  She 
spoke  haughtily.  She  was  evidently  displeased. 
He  had  never  seen  her  look  so  handsome.  But  he 
dashed  on  :  — 

"Did  you  ever  treat  a  young  man,  —  a  fellow 
like  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  I  never  should  have  known  but  you  had  them 
every  day,  — never." 

"  And  why  should  you  ?  "  she  answered  coolly. 
She  left  him  without  another  word.  He  listened 
for  her  to  call  Handy  ;  for  the  nervous  steps  of  the 
pony ;  for  the  decreasing  sound  of  the  phaeton 
wheels,  which  had  become  so  familiar  and  vital  an 
event  in  the  invalid's  dull  day.  He  knew  that  he 
had  made  himself  successfully  wretched  until  he 
should  see  her  once  more.  He  knew  that  he  had 
followed  to  the  verge  of  folly  a  pathological,  and 
therefore  delusive,  track  in  that  region  which  lay 
marked  upon  the  map  of  his  nature  as  "  unex 
plored."  He  knew  that  he  should  lie  and  think 
of  it,  regret  it,  curse  it,  set  his  teeth  against  it, 
and  do  it  again. 

"  I  must  get  well,"  said  the  young  man  aloud  ; 
as  if  that  result  awaited  only  the  expressed  inten 
tion  on  his  part,  and  fate,  like  woman,  needed 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  83 

nothing  but  the  proper  masculine  handling.  He 
got  over  on  his  crutches  to  the  tall  bureau,  and 
looked  into  the  old-fashioned  gilt-framed  glass. 
He  saw  a  fierce-looking  fellow,  all  black  and  white, 
—  a  thundercloud  in  the  eyes,  symptoms  of  earth 
quake  about  the  jaw,  the  fragility  of  mortal  ill 
ness  in  the  sunken  cheeks.  What  kind  of  a  man 
was  that  to  command  a  woman's  respect  ?  He 
must  be  on  a  level  in  her  mind  with,  say,  a  case 
of  measles.  What  a  pity  he  could  not  have  had 
the  whooping-cough,  and  done  with  it ! 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  go  out-of-doors. 
It  struck  him  just  then  that  he  should  go  into  a 
decline  if  he  housed  himself  here  like  an  old  tabby 
any  longer.  He  hunted  up  his  hat,  and  rolled 
Mrs.  Butterwell's  somewhat  accentuated  red  and 
black  striped  afghan  anyhow  about  him,  and  hob 
bled  to  the  front  door.  The  day  was  damp  and 
cheerless.  It  did  not  rain,  but  would  have  done 
so  if  it  had  dared.  Yorke  looked  at  the  clouds 
grimly.  "  They  are  probably  ordered  by  their 
physician  not  to  go  out,"  he  thought.  He  got 
down  upon  the  graveled  walk,  and  stumped  along 
towards  the  gate.  He  had  never  felt  more  guilty 
since,  at  the  conscientious  age  of  eleven,  he  kissed 
Susy  Garratt  without  asking.  As  he  stood  there 
he  caught  sight  suddenly  of  the  doctor's  phaeton. 


84  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

She  was  turning  a  distant  corner,  over  by  the 
post-office.  He  maintained  his  ground  sullenly; 
at  least  he  would  not  run  from  her.  She  did  not 
see  him,  he  was  sure  ;  she  was  driving  very  fast. 
Pie  watched  her  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then 
returned  at  once  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Butterwell, 
at  the  rear  kitchen  window,  was  making  lemon 
pies,  —  a  conscientious,  not  to  say  religious,  pro 
cess.  No  one  observed  him.  As  he  came  up  the 
walk  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  doctor's  sign,  and 
wondered,  with  the  idle  curiosity  of  illness,  what 
her  part  of  the  house  might  be  like.  He  felt  him 
self  extremely  faint,  after  his  exertion,  and  sank 
exhausted  on  the  hair-cloth  sofa,  beneath  the  blaz 
ing  but  generous  afghan.  He  looked  at  the  mar 
ble-topped  bureau,  the  Madonna  and  the^framed 
certificate,  the  red  and  gold  striped  walls,  the 
brown  carpet,  where  the  block  of  sunshine  was 
conspicuously  absent.  The  clock  was  striking 
ten.  He  tried  to  read.  Sparks  of  fire  darted  be 
fore  his  eyes,  and  his  ears  rang.  There  was  no 
mail-stage  till  four  o'clock.  Doctor  Zay  might 
not  make  her  evening  call  before  eight  or  nine. 

"  How  dare  men  ridicule  or  neglect  sick 
women  ?  "  thought  Waldo  Yorke. 

The  day  dragged  piteously  enough.  He  felt 
unusually  ill.  He  asked  Mrs.  Butterwell  to  stay 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  80 

till  she  dilated  before  his  eyes,  and  her  head 
swelled  and  flashed  fire  like  a  jack-o'-lantern.  He 
let  her  go,  to  call  her  back  because  her  vacant 
chair  undertook  to  rise  and  hop  after  her  as  she 
went.  She  read  till  he  entreated  her  as  an  act 
of  charity  to  stop,  and  talked  till  he  begged  her  in 
self-defense  to  read. 

"  I  'm  worried  to  death  about  Doctor,"  observed 
Mrs.  Butterwell,  by  way  of  saying  something 
cheerful.  It  was  the  sick  man's  habit  to  discour 
age  his  hostess  in  gossiping  about  the  young  lady  ; 
perversely,  to-day,  he  let  her  run  on  ;  he  had  al 
ready  that  prevailing  sense  of  having  broken  the 
ten  commandments,  which  made  the  absence  of  an 
eleventh  seem  a  philosophical  lapse  on  the  part  of 
the  Giver. 

"  She  will  be  worked  half  out  of  her  wits,"  pro 
ceeded  Mrs.  Butterwell,  with  that  exasperating 
serenity  which  ignorance  of  one  another's  mental 
processes  gives  to  the  most  perceptive  of  us  at 
times.  "  East  Sherman  has  the  scarlet  fever. 
It 's  something  about  drains.  There 's  no  society 
in  East  Sherman  ;  they  're  a  miserable  lot.  Doc 
tor  will  be  up  and  down  day  and  .night,  now, 
you'll  see.  She  has  no  more  consideration  for 
herself  than  a  seraphim.  She'll  be  one,  if  she 
don't  mind.  The  poorer  they  are,  the  more  no- 


<^G  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

body  else  goes  near  'em,  the  more  they  get  of  her. 
I  've  seen  her  go  on  like  a  lover  to  creatures  you 
or  I  would  n't  touch  with  our  winter  gloves  on  — 
hold  'em  in  her  arms — dirty  babies;  and  once 
there  was  a  woman  at  the  poor-house  —  but  there  ! 
I  won't  go  into  that.  You  would  n't  sleep  a  wink 
to-night.  She  has  such  a  spirit !  You  'd  expect 
it  if  she  was  n't  smart.  When  a  woman  ain't 
good  for  anything  else  she  falls  back  on  her 
spirit !  You  don't  look  for  it  when  she 's  got 
bigger  fish  to  fry.  But  there  !  There  's  more 
woman  to  our  doctor  than  to  the  rest  of  us,  just  as 
there  's  more  brains.  Seems  to  me  as  if  there  was 
love  enough  invested  in  her  for  half  the  world  to 
live  on  the  interest,  and  never  know  they  had  n't 
touched  the  principal.  If  she  did  n't  give  so 
much,  she  'd  be  rich  on  her  own  account  before 
now." 

"  Give  so  much  what,  —  love  ?  "  asked  Yorke, 
turning  with  the  look  and  motion  of  momentarily 
arrested  suffering. 

"  Practice,"  said  Mrs.  Isaiah  severely.  "  She 
will  do  it,  for  all  anybody,  when  folks  ain't  able 
to  pay.  Why,  Mr.  Yorke,  if  Doctor  got  all  that  V 
owTin'  her  she  'd  do  a  five-thousand-dollar  practice 
every  year  of  her  life ;  as  it  is,  she  don't  fall  short 
of  three.  She  's  sent  for  all  over  the  county." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  87 

"  Five  thousand  dollars  !  "  echoed  the  sick  man 
faintly.  "  That  ghi  !  "  He  had  never  earned 
five  hundred  in  his  life. 

"  And  that,  I  'd  have  you  understand,"  pursued 
"  that  girl's  "  adorer,  "  is  only  because  she  shuts 
herself  up  down  here  with  us,  bless  her !  If  she 
lived  in  New  York,  I  've  no  doubt  it  would  be 
TWENTY-FIVE,  —  not  the  least  in  the  world. 
What  are  you  laughing  at,  Mr.  Yorke  ?  There 
is  a  woman  out  West  that  makes  twenty." 

"I  don't  dispute  that  it  might  be  seventy," 
groaned  Yorke. 

"  Not  that  there 's  the  remotest  need  of  it," 
proceeded  Mrs.  Butterwell  loftily.  "  Doctor  is 
quite  independent  of  her  practice." 

"  I  never  had  heard  of  that !  "  exclaimed  Yorke 
savagely. 

"  Well,  she  is,  all  the  same.  Her  father  was 
one  of  the  rich  men  in  Bangor,  —  a  doctor  him 
self  ;  she  used  to  be  round  his  laboratories,  and  so 
on,  with  him,  when  she  was  little.  He  died  when 
she  was  fifteen.  This  girl  is  the  only  one  left,  and 
has  it  all.  You  don't  suppose  Providence  did  n't 
know  what  he  was  about  when  he  planned  out  her 
life  !  He  sets  too  much  by  her.  He  never  'd  let 
her  go  skinning  round  in  medical  schools,  do  your 
own  washing  and  gesticulate  skeletons  or  go  out 
nursing,  to  make  a  few  dollars." 


88  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  It  is  a  remarkable  case,"  murmured  Yorke. 
"  And  I  must  have  been  a  remarkable  donkey." 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  dispute  that,  sir,"  replied  Mrs. 
Isaiah  gently. 

"  Why,  /Sara\i  I  "  objected  Mr.  Bufcterwell,  whose 
prudent  gray  head  appeared  at  the  half -open  door 
in  season  to  receive  the  full  force  of  this  character 
istic  reply. 

"  Well,  I  would  n't.  I  never  argue  with  sick 
folks.  You  want  to  know  what  she  does  it  for, 
Mr.  Yorke  ?  I  see  you  do.  Well,  I  '11  tell  you. 
Don't  you  know  there  are  women  that  can't  get 
through  this  valley  without  men  folks,  in  some 
shape  or  'nother  ?  If  there  ain't  one  round,  they  're 
as  miserable  as  a  peacock  deprived  of  society  that 
appreciates  spread-feathers.  You  know  the  kind 
I  mean  :  if  it  ain't  a  husband,  it 's  a  flirtation  ;  if 
she  can't  flirt,  she  adores  her  minister.  I  always 
said  I  didn't  blame  'em,  ministers  and  doctors 
and  all  those  privileges,  for  walkin'  right  on  over 
women's  necks.  It  is  n't  in  human  nature  to  take 
the  trouble  to  step  off  the  thing  that 's  under  foot. 
Now,  then  !  There  are  women  that  love  women, 
Mr.  Yorke,  care  for  'em,  grieve  over  'em,  worry 
ab<  ut  Ym,  feel  a  fellow  feeling  and  a  kind  of  duty 
to  'em,  and  never  forget  they  're  one  of  'em,  mis 
ery  and  all,  —  and  nonsense  too,  may  be,  if  they 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  89 

had  n't  better  bread  to  set;  and  they  lift  up  their 
strong  arms  far  above  our  heads,  sir,  like  statues 
I  've  read  of  that  lift  up  temples,  and  carry  our 
burdens  for  love  of  us,  God  bless  'em  !  —  and  I 
would  n't  think  much  of  him  if  he  did  n't !  " 

"Why,  Sarah,  Sarah  !"  said  Mr.  Butterwell. 
The  sick  man  answered  nothing.  He  tossed  upon 
the  hair-cloth  sofa,  and  looked  so  uncommonly 
black  that  Mrs.  Butterwell,  acting  upon  an  excep 
tionally  vivid  movement  of  the  imagination,  went 
to  make  him  a  blanc-mange.  It  was  the  whitest, 
not  to  say  the  most  amiable,  thing  she  could  think 
of.  She  feared  the  patient  was  not  improving,  and 
experienced  far  more  concern  for  Doctor  Zay's 
professional  venture  in  the  matter  than  if  it  had 
been  her  own. 

It  was  half  past  nine  that  evening  before  the 
doctor  got,  upon  her  rounds,  to  Mrs.  Butterwell's 
spare  chamber.  The  patient  watched  her  dream 
ily,  as  she  crossed  the  room  through  that  mysteri 
ous  half-light,  in  which  he  was  so  used  to  seeing 
her  that  he  always  thought  of  her  in  beautiful 
hazy  outlines,  standing  between  himself  and  tho 
lamp  upon  the  entry  floor. 

"  How  are  the  fever  patients  ? "  he  began, 
with  a  stupid  idea  of  deferring  personal  consulta 
tion. 


90  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  I  have  changed  my  dress,"  said  Doctor  Zay, 
• —  "  every  article.  There  is  nothing  to  fear." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that  I  "  cried  Yorke.  She 
paid  no  attention  to  his  thoughts,  but  sat  down, 
and  abruptly  took  his  hand  to  count  the  pulse. 
lie  was  in  high  fever. 

"It  is  just  as  I  expected,"  she  said  shortly. 
"  You  will  discontinue  the  other  remedy,  and  take 
these  powders  dry  on  the  tongue,  every  two 
hours." 

She  brought  the  light  to  prepare  the  medicine. 
Her  face,  bent  over  the  green  morocco  medicine- 
case,  was  stern.  She  did  not  talk  to  him.  She 
rose,  took  up  the  light,  and  left  the  remedy  and 
the  room  in  silence. 

"  Come  back,  please,  Doctor  !  "  called  the  cul 
prit,  faintly.  She  stood,  the  lamp  in  her  hand, 
looking  over  her  shoulder.  It  was  a  warm  night, 
and  she  had  on  a  cambric  dress,  of  one  of  the 
"  brunette  colors ; "  he  did  not  know  what  to 
call  it. 

"I  am  afraid  I  did  a  wrong  thing  to-day,"  he 
began  meekly.  "  I  went  "  — 

"  It  is  unnecessary  to  talk  about  it,  Mr.  Yorke. 
I  saw  you." 

"  What  don't  you  see  !  " 

"  Very  little,  I  hope,  which  it  is  my  business  to 
see." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  91 

He  had  thought  she  would  say  more,  but  per 
ceived  that  she  had  no  intention  of  discussing  the 
matter  with  him  ;  he  keenly  felt  this  dignified  re 
buke. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  did  quite  right,"  he  admitted 
hastily,  "  but  I  am  not  versed  in  medical  ethics.  I 
did  not  realize,  till  I  felt  so  much  worse,  how 
wrong  it  was  by  you." 

"  It  was  not  honorable.  But  the  real  wrong  is 
to  yourself.  We  will  not  talk  of  it,  if  you  please. 
I  must  go.  I  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since  twelve 
o'clock." 

He  saw  how  tired  she  looked,  and  his  heart 
smote  him.  He  smothered  an  ineffectual  groan. 
He  felt  that  she  was  very  angry  with  him,  and 
that  he  deserved  it.  He  would  have  pleaded  with 
her.  Unreasonably,  he  felt  as  if  his  suffering  ought 
to  appeal  to  her  pity.  Where  was  the  woman  in 
her  that  Mrs.  Isaiah  prated  of?  Was  there  no 
weak  point  where  his  personality  could  struggle 
through  and  meet  her  own,  man  against  woman, 
on  level  ground  ?  What  an  overthrow  was  his ! 
He  called  impetuously  :  — 

"  Doctor  Zay  !  " 

"  Sir  ?  " 

"  One  moment  "  — 

"  I  have  no  moments  for  you,  at  present,  Mr. 


92  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

Yorke."  Her  peremptoriness  was  the  more  inci 
sive  for  being  punctiliously  polite.  "  It  would  be 
perfectly  just  if  I  were  to  refuse  to  keep  your  case 
another  day.  You  have  disobeyed  and  distrusted 
me.  You  would  have  no  right,  after  what  I  have 
done  for  you,  sir,  to  complain,  if  I  turned  you 
over  to  old  Doctor  Adoniram  to-morrow  morning. 
Good-night."  And  the  woman  of  science  left  him, 
without  a  relenting  word.  It  struck  him  forcibly, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time,  that  these  exceptional 
women  had  an  unfortunate  power  of  looking  be 
yond  that  gentle  pressure  of  the  individual,  which, 
like  the  masque  veils  that  their  sex  wore,  height 
ened  the  complexion,  if  it  did  not  brighten  the 
eyesight.  Obviously,  her  interest  in  her  profes 
sional  reputation  overpowered  her  interest  in  her 
patient.  He  accepted  his  fate  and  his  fever. 
This  was  easier  to  do,  as  he  was  quite  ill  for  sev 
eral  days. 


V. 

SHE  took  care  of  him  conscientiously  and  skill 
fully.  On  liis  worst  day,  she  even  melted  and 
brooded  in  that  gracious,  womanly  way  of  hers 
that  he  watched  for ;  but  as  soon  as  he  began  to 
get  better  again  he  felt  that  she  distanced  him. 

"  You  are  harder  than  Heaven,  Doctor,"  he 
said.  "  You  cannot  forgive." 

"  Forgive  what  ?  "  She  looked  up  ;  she  was 
bandaging  his  ankle.  "  Oh,  that  disobedience  of 
yours  ?  Honestly,  I  have  been  so  hard-worked,  I 
had  almost  forgotten  it." 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter,  Doctor  Zay  ?  " 

She  glittered  upon  him  for  an  instant  with  her 
professional  look.  It  was  as  if  she  held  out  a 
golden  sceptre  to  measure  the  width  at  which  she 
would  keep  him.  There  was  no  invitation  in  her 
eye.  He  did  not  press  his  question.  When  the 
consultation  was  over  she  told  him  that  she  should 
not  be  in  again  till  the  next  morning. 

"  You  no  longer  need  two  calls  a  day,  Mr. 
Yorke.  I  will  be  here  as  usual,  after  office  hours, 
before  I  start  off,  and  will  see  you  safely  out  upon 


94  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

the  piazza.  I  wish  you  to  keep  out,  now,  from  one 
to  three  hours  a  day.  I  will  superintend  the  ex 
periment,  to  begin  with.  But  you  are  perfectly 
able  to  dispense  with  this  frequent  attendance." 

Was  she  thinking  of  her  —  bill,  perhaps  ?  The 
young  man  had  really  forgotten,  till  that  moment, 
that  any  embarrassing  basis  of  this  sort  awaited 
himself  and  this  lady. 

"  Oh,  indeed,  I  don't  think  I  am  well  enough, 
at  all,"  he  hastily  said.  "I  —  really — I  have 
such  troublesome  sensations  towards  evening.  I 
beg  you  will  continue  to  come  as  you  have,  Doc 
tor  Lloyd." 

That  amused  look  flitted  for  a  moment  over 
her  bowed  forehead  ;  he  could  see  it  in  the  little 
movements  about  the  temples.  She  said,  — 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  call  where  I  am  not 
positively  needed,  just  now.  You  do  not  realize 
how  driven  I  am.  You  will  find  one  daily  call 
quite  sufficient  for  your  case.  We  will  hope  to 
dispense  with  that,  before  long." 

She  was  as  bad  as  her  word,  and  he  did  not  see 
her  for  twenty-four  hours. 

When  she  came  again,  she  looked  at  him  and 
frowned.  He  was  clearly  worse. 

"  I  have  found  out  now  what  my  mother  meant 
by  '  aggravations,' ':  said  the  patient.  "  This 
must  be  one." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  95 

She  did  not  smile,  as  he  had  expected.  Neither 
did  she  express  the  sympathy  which  he  felt  thit 
the  physician's  heart  ought  to  keep  on  tap,  like 
cider,  and  gush  to  order,  at  least  upon  a  reasonably 
interesting  invalid  like  himself.  She  leaned  back 
in  her  chair  with  a  look  of  annoyance,  drumming 
lightly  upon  the  table,  with  that  nervous  protest 
of  the  fingertips,  which  is  a  more  natural  expres 
sion  of  irritation  among1  men  than  women.  As 
she  sat  there,  looking  steadily  at  him,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  she  was  about  to  say  something  of 
novelty  and  importance.  A  certain  swift  illumina 
tion  of  her  thoughtful  eyes  struck  him,  and  fell, 
like  a  ray  of  intercepted  light.  It  was  somehow 
made  apparent  to  him,  also,  perhaps  from  the  fact 
that  she  refrained  from  saying  what  she  purposed, 
that  it  would  not  have  been  a  matter  of  pleasura 
ble  interest  to  himself. 

"  I  will  get  you  out-of-doors,  now,"  she  ob 
served,  rising.  She  had  never  made  him  so  short 
a  call.  He  protested  that  he  was  too  ill  to  go  to 
day  ;  and,  in  fact,  he  had  no  heart  or  health  for  it. 
He  was  full  of  aches  and  ails ;  those,  especially  in 
the  spine,  were  not  of  light  importance ;  he  was 
thoroughly  dejected. 

She  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  his  opinions, 
but  helped  him  out  upon  the  piazza,  overlooking 


96  DOCTOE  ZAY. 

the  process  carefully;  when  she  had  him  located  to 
her  mind,  in  the  proper  hygienic  relations  to  wind, 
wet,  sun,  and  shade,  she  gathered  her  driving- 
gloves,  as  if  to  go.  "  You  have  not  changed  the 
medicine,  Doctor,"  he  said,  with  difficult  careless 
ness. 

"  I  do  not  propose  to." 

"  Excuse  me.  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  for 
gotten  it." 

"  A  physician  cannot  always  give  a  patient  the 
remedy  he  wants,  you  will  understand ;  only  the 
one  he  needs.  I  expect  to  find  you  better,  when 
I  come  to-morrow." 

It  was  hardly  possible,  he  thought,  to  be  mis 
taken  in  attributing  a  significance  to  these  words. 
Yet  so  ineffably  fine  are  the  intonations  by  which 
souls  become  articulate  for  each  other,  and  so  ex 
ceptional  was  the  acoustic  position  of  these  two, 
that  the  young  man  experienced  a  modest  and 
taunting  doubt  whether  he  might  rate  himself 
even  of  value  enough  to  his  physician  to  receive  a 
clearly  personal  rebuff. 

There  exists,  and  there  must  exist,  between 
woman  and  man,  an  exquisite  chromatic  scale  of 
relations,  variable  from  the  sublimest  passions 
which  glorify  earth  to  the  most  futile  movements 
of  the  fancy ;  from  the  profound  and  eternal  sac- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  97 

rifices  to  the  momentary  deification  of  self ;  from 
divine  oneness,  past  conscious  separation,  all  the 
way  down  to  little  intellectual  curiosities,  and  the 
contented  reverences  of  slight  and  beautiful  ap 
proach.  Somewhere  in  this  wide  resource  of  har 
mony,  thought  Waldo  Yorke,  we  must  belong. 
Then  where  ? 

It  was  apt,  he  remembered,  to  be  the  woman 
whom  nature  or  fate,  God  or  at  least  man  (the 
same  thing,  doubtless,  to  her),  had  relegated  to 
the  minor  note.  It  occurred  to  him  that  in  this 
case  he  seemed  to  have  struck  it  himself. 

Pie  did  not  seek  to  detain  her.  They  parted  in 
silence,  and  she  went  to  her  day's  work.  Handy 
was  at  the  gate  with  the  gray  pony.  Handy  al 
ways  wore  hats  that  were  too  big  for  him,  and 
coats  that  never  by  any  IT.  'stake  were  large  enough. 
The  doctor  went  down  the  long  front  walk,  draw 
ing  on  her  gauntleted  gloves.  She  had  the  de 
cisive  step  which  only  women  of  business  acquire 
to  whom  each  moment  represents  dollars,  responsi 
bilities,  or  projects.  Yet  he  liked  to  see  that  she 
had  not  lost  the  grace  of  movement  due  to  her 
eminently  womanly  form.  She  had  preserved 
the  curves  of  femineity.  He  had  never  even  seen 
her  put  her  hand  upon  her  hip,  with  that  mascu 
line  angle  of  the  elbow,  the  first  evidence  of  a 

7 


98      .  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

mysterious  process  of  natural  selection,  which  goes 
on  in  women  thrust  by  fate  or  choice  to  the  front 
and  the  brunt  of  life ;  and  the  last  little  peculiarity 
to  leave  them  if,  by  choice  or  fate,  they  suffer  a 
military  recall  to  the  civil  status.  She  saluted 
him  lightly  with  her  free  hand,  as  she  gathered 
the  long  blue  reins  into  her  left,  and,  turning 
once,  shot  over  her  shoulder  a  sudden  smile.  She 
had,  when  she  felt  like  it,  a  lovely  smile.  Pie 
found  himself  ridiculously  better  for  it.  He 
leaned  back  in  the  easy-chair  where  she  had  im 
prisoned  him,  and  watched  her  drive  away.  The 
gray  pony  exhibited  professional  responsibility  in 
every  clean  step  that  morning,  and  the  conscious 
ness  of  having  made  a  timely  diagnosis  in  each 
satisfied  movement  of  her  delicate  ears.  The  doc 
tor  had  on  her  linen  dress  and  sack,  and  her  figure 
absorbed  the  July  morning  light.  Her  color  was 
fine.  She  was  the  eidolon  of  glorious  health. 
Every  free  motion  of  her  happy  head  and  body 
was  superb.  She  seemed  to  radiate  health,  as  if 
she  had  too  much  for  her  own  use,  and  to  spare 
for  half  the  pining  world.  She  had  the  myste 
rious  odic  force  of  the  healer,  which  is  above 
science,  and  beyond  experience,  and  behind  theory, 
and  which  we  call  magnetism  or  vitality,  tact  or 
inspiration,  according11  to  our  assimilating  poAver 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  99 

in  its  presence,  and  our  reverence  for  its  mis 
sion. 

It  seemed  to  the  nervously-strained  patient  on 
the  piazza  that  he  received  a  slowly-lessening 
strength  from  the  doctor's  departing  figure,  as  he 
received  warmth  from  the  sun,  at  that  moment 
threatened  by  a  cloud.  It  seemed  to  him  a  cruel 
thing  that  she  should  not  permit  him  to  see  her 
for  twenty-four  hours  more. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  the  young  man  did  not 
chafe  under  his  unprecedented  consciousness  of 
dependence.  He  did.  It  had  struck  him  yester 
day  that  he  was  in  danger  of  making  a  fool  of 
himself.  He  had  devoted  the  day  to  this  inspir 
ing  discovery,  and  to  those  select  resolves  and 
broad  aspirations  by  which  the  Columbus  in  the 
soul  is  moved.  His  present  relapse,  not  to  say 
collapse,  was  the  humiliating  result.  As  he  sat 
there,  patient  and  weak  in  the  strong  summer 
morning,  thinking  these  things  sadly  over,  he 
recognized  the  fact  that  he  was  still  too  sick  a 
man  to  be  wise.  The  grave  urgencies  of  illness  in 
tercepted  him.  He  was  caught  between  the  fires 
of  a  higher  and  lower  species  of  self-defense.  All 
that  a  man  hath,  particularly  his  good  sense,  will 
he  give  for  his  life. 

"  Let  me  get  well,  first ;  I  will  be  prudent  after 
wards,"  thought  Yorke. 


100  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

He  waited  to  see  her  return  at  noon.  He 
found  himself  strengthened  —  such  is  the  hygienic 
jimuence  of  possessing  an  object  in  life  —  and 
calmed,  as  the  morning  wore  away.  It  was  a 
warm  morning  ;  would  have  been  hot,  outside  of 
Maine.  The  soft,  sudorific  glow  upon  the  small 
leaves  of  the  acacia-trees  in  the  front  yard  ;  the 
opaque  color  of  the  dust  in  the  dry,  still  street ; 
the  contented  cluck  of  a  brood  of  yellow  chickens, 
that  made  futile  attempts  at  acquaintance  with 
him,  around  the  shaded  corner  of  the  house  ;  the 
faint  purr  of  unknown  domestic  mysteries  in  Mrs. 
Isaiah's  distant  kitchen :  and  then  the  sky,  of 
whose  intense  blueness  he  was  conscious,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  star  gone  out  in  it  and  become  a  part 
of  the  burning  day,  —  these  things  emphasized 
the  dreamy  struggle  after  strength,  in  which  he 
seemed  to  be  alternately  the  victor  and  the  van 
quished,  and  to  fight  for  high  costs,  and  cover 
large  arenas,  and  to  live  a  long  time  in  the  hours 
of  a  short  July  morning.  Well  people  will  not 
understand. 

Mr.  Butterwell  came  out  and  sat  with  him  a 
while  ;  he  tipped  his  chair  back,  and  rocked  on 
its  hind  legs,  not  having  felt  at  liberty  to  be  indi 
vidual  before  since  his  guest  was  hurt.  He  talked 
of  his  horse,  of  Uncle  Jed  and  the  estate,  of  the 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  101 

doctor,  of  her  horses,  of  Handy,  of  the  lumber 
trade,  and  Sherman  politics. 

"  I  hope  you  find  it  comfortable  to  be  sick,  Mr. 
Yorke,"  he  added  hospitably.  "  I  hope  you  don't 
mind  it,  bein'  on  Sarah's  hands.  Why,  she  likes 
it.  The  worse  you  were,  the  more  she  'd  enjoy  it. 
Sarah  is  a  very  uncommon  woman.  She  and  I 
used  to  argey  one  spell  about  profession.  Sarah 
is  a  professor.  Seems  at  first  she  could  n't  sit  down 
to  it  that  I  should  n't  profess  alongside  of  her. 
But  she  gave  it  up  after  a  while.  Women  are 
curious  creeturs  about  what  they  call  religion.  It 
looks  as  if  nature  gave  'em  their  meetin's  and  hymn- 
tunes  much  as  she  give  men  a  store  or  a  counting- 
room.  They  want  places  to  go  to,  —  that 's  what 
they  want.  They  ain't  like  us,  Mr.  Yorke. 
There  's  a  monstrous  difference.  Why,  there 's 
the  doctor  !  She  's  a  good  girl,  Doctor  Zay  is,  if 
she  is  cute.  There  is  n't  a  horse  in  town,  without 
it 's  mine,  can  make  the  miles  that  pony  can. 
Look  there  !  The  creetur  wants  her  dinner.  See 
how  she  holds  her  ?  No  blinders  nor  check-rein 
on  her  horses.  She  drives  'em  by  lovin'  'em. 
There  's  woman  clear  through  that  girl's  brains. 
You  should  see  her  in  January.  There  ain't  three 
men  in  Sherman  I  'd  trust  to  drive  that  mare  in 
January  without  a  good  life  insurance  before  they 


102  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

set  out.  Now,  Mr.  Yorke,  may  be  you  don't  feel 
as  I  do,  but  to  my  mind  there  's  no  prettier  sight 
under  heaven  than  a  brave  girl  and  a  fine  horse 
that  understand  each  other.  I  guess  I  '11  speak 
to  the  little  doctor." 

This  was  a  long  speech  for  Mr.  Butterwell,  who 
clearly  took  advantage  of  what  he  thought  the 
first  well-bred  opportunity  to  relieve  himself  of  his 
•  unwonted  conversational  responsibility.  He  was 
fond  of  Mr.  Yorke,  but  he  adored  the  doctor,  who 
never  wasted  good  English  herself,  and  had  cured 
the  big  sorrel  of  rheumatism.  Yorke  watched  the 
two  standing  iiKfhe  bright,  unshaded  yard.  Mr. 
Butterwell  patted  the  pony,  and  it  seemed,  al 
though  she  did  not  touch  him,  as  if  the  doctor 
patted  the  old  man.  There  was  a  beautiful  affec- 
tjonateness  about  her,  —  Yorke  had  either  never 
noticed  or  never  seen  it  before,  —  a  certain  free, 
feminine  impulse,  which  it  is  hard  to  describe,  un 
less  we  say  that  it  showed  itself  chiefly  in  the  mo 
tions  of  her  delicate  chin.  She  nodded  pleasantly 
to  her  patient  as  she  came  by,  but  did  not  stop. 

Presently  the  dinner-bell  rang,  and  she  came 
through  the  long  hall  behind  him,  and  out  upon 
the  piazza.  He  saw  then  that  she  had  changed 
her  "  scarlet-fever  dress  "  for  a  fresh  cambric,  be 
fore  coming  near  him.  She  had  a  vine,  whose  name 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  103 

he  did  not  know,  in  her  hand.  She  dropped  it 
lightly  over  his  shoulder ;  it  floated  down,  and  fell 
slowly  ;  it  was  a  delicate  thing.  She  said,  — 

"  Do  you  know  too  much  about  the  spontaneous 
movements  of  plants  ?  I  have  some  books  that 
you  may  like,  when  you  are  strong  enough,  —  one 
of  Darwin's  especially.  It  is  a  subject  that  inter 
ests  me  greatly.  I  found  this  sensitive  thing  step 
ping  straight  over  the  shrubs  and  logs  for  a  certain 
birch- tree  it  fancied,  to  climb  there  ;  it  weht  as  if 
it  were  frightened,  or  starved,  —  like  a  creature.  It 
made  me  feel  as  if  it  had  a  nervous  system,  and 
that  the  lack  is  in  us,  not  in  it ;  .we  have  not  the 
eyes  fine  enough  to  find  its  ganglia,  that  is  all." 

"  It  seems  to  shrink  from  my  touch,  like  a 
woman,"  said  Yorke. 

"  It  was  so  delicate,  I  thought  you  would  like  it," 
observed  the  doctor.  "  But  come  !  I  must  send  you 
back  to  bed.  I  will  have  your  dinner  brought  in. 
You  have  been  here  twenty  minutes  too  long." 

He  went,  peaceably  enough.  He  felt  ridicu 
lously,  vaguely,  pitifully  happy. 


VI. 

EAST  SHERMAN,  as  Mrs.  Butterwell  had  not 
untruthfully  observed,  was  a  place  lacking  in  "  so 
ciety."  The  people  were  miserably  poor,  and  pro 
portionally  ignorant,  — foreigners,  largely :  French 
and  Irish  lumbermen,  and  householders  of  the 
lesser  sort,  who  raised  cabbages,  aspired  to  pota- 
toesTlkid  supported  a  theory,  if  not  their  families, 
—  the  theory  being  that  they  were  farmers. 

There  are  advantages  in  remoteness,  solitude, 
and  unlimited  opportunity  to  appreciate  nature, 
but  advanced  sanitary  conditions  are  not,  even  in 
the  State  of  Maine,  necessarily  among  them.  East 
Sherman  raged  with  scarlet  fever  and  diphtheria 
through  that  long  July,  and  Doctor  Zay  had  her 
expressive  hands  full.  She  was  busy  day  and 
night.  The  exhausting  rides  of  the  country  phy 
sician  extended  themselves  through  the  neighbor 
ing  towns,  to  disheartening  lengths.  Old  Oak  re 
lieved  the  gray  pony  now  regularly  every  day. 
The  office  bell  rang  to  the  verge  of  confusion. 
Handy,  plunged  in  gloom,  rolled  out  the  phaeton 
at  midnight,  or  waited  vainly,  deep  through  the 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  105 

late  summer  twilights,  for  the  "  blessedest,  best 
sound  "  of  low  wheels  returning  down  the  lonely 
road.  Handy  had  one  spot  in  the  back  yard,  by 
the  wood-pile,  where  he  stood  to  exercise  what 
might  be  called  his  mind  upon  the  medical  and 
moral  subjects  connected  with  his  calling.  He 
dug  his  foot  —  the  right  one  always,  and  he  took 
off  his  shoe  for  the  purpose — spirally  into  the 
sawdust,  a  process  not  widely  understood  for  its 
tendency  to  develop  thought,  and  retired  deeper 
than  usual  into  his  hats.  He  had  two.  The  felt 
one  was  the  bigger  ;  he  wore  it  altogethe-gduring 
the  prevalence  of  the  epidemic.  Handy  regarded 
the  scarlet  fever  as  a  serious  infliction,  chiefly  on 
horses,  not  to  mention  indirectly  persons  by  occu 
pation  devoted  to  equine  interests.  He  made  un 
successful  attempts  to  explain  this  scientific  theory 
to  the  doctor  ;  but  found  her  the  slave  of  estab 
lished  medical  prejudices,  not  predisposing  one  to 
accept  popular  discoveries.  When  Handy  was  es 
pecially  aggrieved,  he  alluded  to  his  injury  as  "an 
Ananias  'n'  Sapphiry  shame."  No  one  had  ever 
traced  the  etymological  derivation  of  this  figure. 

One  evening,  as  the  clock  was  striking  eight, 
Handy,  having  reached  that  depth  of  spiral  action 
on  the  sawdust  heap  which  expressed  resignation, 
not  as  yet  hope,  expectation,  or  disappointment, 


106  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

and  still  as  far  from  the  pessimistic  as  it  was  from 
the  optimistic  view  of  life,  found  himself,  like 
many  a  better  and  wiser  soul  that  in  facing  duty 
wrests  content  from  the  teeth  of  despair,  suddenly 
plunged  into  undreamed-of  (but  plainly  deserved) 
delight. 

The  doctor  was  coming  home. 

"  Some  of  'em  's  better,"  observed  Handy, 
wriggling  out  of  the  sawdust,  and  into  his  shoe,  an 
artistic  attitude  which  joggled  his  hat  an  inch  or 
so  lower  than  usual  over  his  nose.  "  Or  some  of 
'em  's  4ead.  Somebody  's  cured.  Or  somebody's 
killed,  /don't  care  which.  Well,  Doctor?  " 

"  Don't  water  her  for  thirty-five  minutes,"  said 
the  doctor,  throwing  the  reins  ov.er  the  dasher. 
"  She  's  too  warm." 

"  Gointerwanteragin  ?  "  asked  Handy,  in  one 
agonized  breath. 

"  Not  to-night.  Put  her  up.  Have  you  fed 
Old  Oak  ?  Very  well.  That 's  all." 

"  Bobailey  was  after  you  'safternoon.  The  Bai- 
leybabyswuss.  'Relse  it 's  better.  I  forget.  It 's 
one  or  t'other.  It  always  is  one  or  t'other,"  added 
Handy  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  Haintgoterseeit- 
aginaveyer  ?  " 

The  doctor  did  not  answer  Handy.  If  she  had 
been  a  man,  one  would  have  said  she  strode  by 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  107 

him  into  the  house.     As  it  was,  she  had  a  long 
nervous,   absorbed    step,  that   Handy  knew   very 
well.     He  and  the  gray  pony  looked  at  each  other 
with  a  confidential  air  through  the  twilight  of  the 
deserted  back  yard. 

"It's  dead,"  said  Handy,  "ain't  it?"  He 
stroked  the  pony's  chin.  The  horse  returned  the 
boy's  gaze  with  soft,  tired  eyes,  and  seemed  to 
nod. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Handy.  "You  need  n't 
tell  me  you  ain't  glad  of  it.  Got  your  supper  an 
hour  sooner.  Accommodatinbaby  warntit  ?  " 

He  leaned  his  face  against  the  pony's,  and  whis 
tled,  as  he  led  her  to  her  stall,  a  polka  made  pop 
ular  in  Maine  by  the  Sherman  Brass  Band.  The 
horse  and  the  boy  went  gayly  into  the  barn  to 
gether,  cheek  to  cheek,  as  if  they  both  belonged 
there.  Suddenly  Handy  appeared  in  the  barn 
door,  and  made  a  dive  (chiefly  over  the  flower 
beds)  after  the  doctor's  retreating  figure. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Doctor!  I  forgot!  Hewantsyer, 
mostpartiklertoo.  I  've  got  too  much  to  do  to 
keep  rememberin'  liim"  said  Handy,  with  a  look 
of  disgust. 

o 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Handy  ?  "  The  doctor 
stopped,  not  without  a  touch  of  annoyance. 

"  Why,  the   fellar  in    the   house.     He 's  wuss, 


108  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

too.  They  're  all  wuss  to-day,"  cried  Handy,  with 
professional  glee.  "  It 's  one  of  our  days.  It 's 
pretty  much  all  wussness.  We  've  got  our  hands 
full,  I  tell  yer,  younmenthehosses." 

"  But  I  went  to  see  Mr.  Yorke  this  morning," 
said  Doctor  Zay,  rather  to  herself  than  to  Handy- 
She  pushed  off  her  hat,  and  passed  her  hand  over 
her  forehead  wearily.  There  was  an  irritable,  al 
most  a  womanish  accent  in  her  voice  ;  as  if  she 
would  have  said,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  or,  possi 
bly,  would  have  cried  a  little,  if  she  had  not  been 
ashamed  to.  But  only  Handy  heard  her,  and  the 
gray  pony,  neighing  through  the  barn  door  for  her 
supper.  Both  of  them  discriminated  finely,  up  to 
a  certain  point,  in  the  doctor's  tones  ;  but  she  had 
passed  that  point. 

"  Can't  help  that,"  said  Handy ;  "  yervegoter- 
go.  He  said  so." 

She  bathed,  and  changed  her  dress,  and  took 
her  supper,  before  she  obeyed  Mr.  Yorke's  order ; 
but  she  obeyed  it.  He  was  on  the  lounge  in  his 
room,  in  the  familiar  position,  and  the  lamp  was 
in  the  entry  ;  she  came  through  the  half-light,  to 
wards  him,  against  the  Rembrandt  -  like  back 
ground.  He  watched  her  in  silence. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  stopping  before  him.  She 
made  no  movement  to  sit  down. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  109 

"  Why,  Doctor,  you  're  cross  !  "  said  the  young 
man,  with  an  indefinably  masculine  touch  in  his 
tone  ;  half  frolic,  half  tenderness,  as  if  he  sported 
with  her  retreat,  and  put  it  aside  as  something 
not  important  to  the  case,  or  even  as  a  thing  which 
it  might  be  in  his  power  to  overcome,  if  he  chose. 

"  Handy  said  you  were  worse,  and  needed  me," 
replied  the  doctor,  gravely.  Plainly,  she  was  not 
a  woman  to  be  meshed  by  these  little  nets. 

"  I  did  not  tell  Handy  I  was  worse.  But  I  do 
need  you." 

"  So  do  many  other  people.  If  there  are  no 
new  symptoms,  Mr.  Yorke  "  — 

"  Symptoms  !  "  breathed  the  patient,  all  but  in- 
audibly.  "There  are  new  symptoms  every  day." 

She  made  a  nonchalant  little  gesture  with  one 
hand. 

"  If  that  is  all,"  — there  was  a  very  fine  empha 
sis,  too  light  to  bear  italics,  too  clear  to  pass  un 
noticed,  upon  the  "that,"  —  "you  will  excuse  me, 
to-night.  I  am  —  tired." 

"  Bring  the  light,  please,"  said  Yorke,  with  a 
change  of  manner.  "  No,  sit  down.  I  can  do  it 
myself.  Take  the  easy-chair.  No,  take  the  lounge. 
I  can  sit  up  a  few  minutes  perfectly  well.  I  won't 
keep  you  more  than  a  few  minutes.  Please  !  Why 
not  ?  Where  's  the  harm  ?  How  tired  —  how  tired 
you  are !  " 


110  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

He  had  hobbled  over,  and  brought  the  lamp :  it 
was  a  little  lantern,  that  he  had  made  to  swing 
upon  his  arm,  —  one  of  the  contrivances  of  con 
valescence,  the  offspring  of  necessity,  like  all  the 
great  inventions  of  history ;  it  had  a  Japanese 
paper  shade.  He  stood  leaning  upon  his  crutches, 
looking  down.  She  had  silently  taken  the  empty 
chair. 

Doctor  Zay  had  borne  her  epidemic  superbly. 
Her  bloom  had  subsided  a  little,  it  is  true,  but 
only  enough  to  increase  the  delicacy  rather  than 
detract  from  the  vigor  of  her  strong  face.  He  had 
all  along  perceived  in  her  a  person  practically  sup 
ported  by  what  we  are  accustomed  to  call,  with 
the  most  imperfect  apprehension  of  the  phrase,  a 
scientific  passion. 

Against  the  strain  of  exhausted  sympathy  she 
had  set  the  muscle  of  intellectual  conquest.  It 
could  not  be  denied  that  in  a  certain  sense  the 
doctor  enjoyed  her  terrible  work.  She  gave  out 
of  herself,  as  if  she  possessed  the  life  everlasting 
before  her  time.  She  had  bread  to  eat  that  he 
knew  not  of.  He  could  not  think  of  her  as  sink 
ing,  dejected,  in  need,  ahungered.  Her  splendid 
health  was  like  a  god  to  her.  She  leaned  against 
her  own  physical  strength,  as  another  woman 
might  lean  upon  a  man's.  She  had  the  repose  of 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  Ill 

her  full  mental  activity.  She  had  her  dangerous 
and  sacred  feminine  nerve  under  magnificent  train 
ing.  It  was  her  servant,  not  her  tyrant ;  her 
wealth,  not  her  poverty ;  the  source  of  her  power, 
not  the  exponent  of  her  weakness.  She  moved  on 
her  straight  and  narrow  way  between  life  and 
death,  where  one  hysteric  moment  would  be  fatal, 
with  a  glorious  poise.  The  young  man  acknowl 
edged  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  she  was  a 
balanced  and  beautiful  creature.  He  had  read  of 
such  women.  He  had  never  seen  one. 

It  was  not  without  a  thrill  of  reverence,  amount 
ing  almost  to  awe,  that  he  perceived,  when  he 
swung  his  fantastic  little  lantern  full  in  her  face, 
that  she  was  undergoing  some  intense  emotion, 
which,  in  almost  any  woman  that  he  knew,  would 
have  weakened  itself  in  vehement  vocal  expres 
sion. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  my  mother,"  he  began, 
"  and  I  thought  —  it  was  about  you  —  I  had  told 
her  at  last  —  and  it  was  such  a  pleasant  letter. 
I  meant  to  read  it  to  you.  She  sends  a  long 
message  to  you.  I  really  am  not  such  a  brute  as 
I  seem.  I  thought  perhaps  it  would  amuse  you. 
Doctor  Zay,  I  had  no  more  idea  you  were  so  over 
worked  than  I  had  that  you  were  "  —  He  broke 
off. 


112  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  I  never  saw  you  look  so !  "  he  murmured,  with 
rebellious,  almost  affectionate  anxiety.  "  It 's  not 
easy  when  you  've  done  so  much  for  him,  for  a 
man  to  look  on,  like  a  woman,  this  way.  Is  n't 
there  anything  I  can  do?  If  you  would  stay  a 
while,  I  could  read  to  you.  We  will  send  for  Mrs. 
Butterwell,  if  you  would  rather.  I  could  do  some 
thing,  I  know  I  could  !  Just  let  me  try." 

"  You  cannot  help  me,"  she  said,  gently  enough. 
"  Nobody  can.  I  have  lost  a  patient." 

Yorke  was  on  the  point  of  crying,  "Is  that 
all  ?  "  but  saved  himself  in  time,  and  only  said,  — • 

"  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  little  Bailey  baby.  It  was  doing  so  well, 
—  out  of  danger.  The  mother  took  it  over  to  a 
neighbor's.  You  cannot  conceive  the  ignorance  and 
recklessness  that  we  have  to  manage.  She  took  the 
child  out,  like  an  express  bundle,  rolled  in  her 
shawl.  Coming  home,  it  got  wet  in  that  shower. 
I  had  ceased  to  visit  there  every  day ;  they  did 
not  send  at  once,  —  I  suppose  every  doctor  makes 
these  excuses  for  himself ;  what  would  become  of 
us,  if  we  could  n't  ?  —  but  when  I  got  there,  I 
could  not  do  anything.  The  little  thing  died  at 
half  past  seven." 

She  sat  looking  straight  before  her  at  the  Japa 
nese  lantern.  Yorke  felt  that  the  personality  of 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  113 

the  red  and  purple  paper  men  on  it  came  as  near 
her  at  that  moment  us  his.  He  could  not  think 
of  anything  to  say  which  would  not  present  the 
edge  of  an  intrusion  upon  an  experience  so  far 
without  the  pale  of  his  own.  The  young  man's 
imagination  was  well  stocked  with  comfortable 
material  for  the  lesser  sympathies.  If  she  had 
lost  a  steamer  to  Liverpool,  or  a  ticket  for  a 
Christmas  oratorio,  or  a  picture  bidden  for  in  the 
last  great  art  craze,  he  could  have  comforted  her. 
She  had  lost  only  a  miserable  child  out  of  a  beg 
garly  home.  What  could  he  say  ? 

"  I  don't  believe  every  baby  in  Sherman  is 
worth  your  looking  like  that !  "  he  cried,  with  an 
impulse  whose  only  virtue  lay  in  its  honesty.  He 
really  perceived  that  something  more  than  scien 
tific  pride  was  hurt  in  Doctor  Zay.  He  felt,  with 
a  kind  of  senseless  triumph,  which  he  put  aside  to 
analyze  by  and  by,  that  he  had  found  the  woman 
in  the  doctor. 

"  It  was  a  dear  little  thing,"  she  said,  softly, 
"  and  fond  of  me.  I  had  always  taken  care  of  it, 
ever  since  it  was  born.  It  was  just  beginning  to 
talk.  It  was  n't  a  big,  noisy  baby,  like  the  rest  of 
the  family.  It  is  terrible  that  a  child  should  die, 
—  terrible  !  It  ought  never  to  happen.  There  is 
no  excuse  for  it.  I  can  never  be  reconciled  to  it!  " 


114  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

She  rose  impetuously,  and  left  him  without  an 
other  word.  The  patient  looked  after  her.  She 
had  forgotten  him.  He  and  the  paper  men  re 
garded  each  other.  It  was  not  for  them  to  help 
her  in  her  trouble.  She  went  across  the  entry, 
and  on  into  her  own  rooms,  and  he  heard  the  door 
shut.  Only  one  patient  rang  the  office  bell  that 
night.  He  was  glad  she  was  left  to  herself.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Butterwell  came  in.  They  too,  were 
much  moved  by  the  doctor's  grief.  They  all  sat 
together  in  the  sick-room,  and  mourned  about  that 
baby  as  if  it  had  been  one  of  the  family. 

"  It 's  always  just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Butterwell,  wip 
ing  her  eyes.  "  She  has  n't  lost  but  two  patients 
since  she  came  to  Sherman,  —  except  old  Father 
Foxy,  that  nobody  counts  ;  for  the  Lord  himself 
could  n't  have  saved  him,  —  eighty-seven,  and 
drunk  since  he  was  seventeen.  The  Sherman  Tem 
perance  Lodge  used  him  for  a  warning  in  good  and 
regular  standing,  till  he  got  to  be  about  fifty,  he 
kept  such  excellent  health  ;  and  sixty,  then  they 
fought  shy  of  him  ;  and  seventy,  but  did  n't  die ; 
and  when  he  came  to  be  eighty  the}7  gave  him  up 
as  a  bad  argument.  But  there !  It  kills  Doctor 
Zay  to  lose  a  patient.  I  never  saw  anybody  mind 
anything  so.  She  acts  as  if  she  'd  murdered  'em. 
You  '11  see !  She  '11  be  all  but  down  sick  over 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  115 

this.  She  'd  better  take  it  as  a  blessin'.  I  would. 
Those  Baileys  have  got  seven  now,  and  poor  as 
Job's  Monday  dinners.  I  tell  you,  Providence 
knows  what  he  's  about,  if  folks  don't.  He  will 
drown  the  extra  kittens,  when  he  can.  /  say  he 
ought  to  be  thanked  to  mercy  for  it.  But  we 
never  do.  We  up  and  blame  him,  the  more  fools 
we  !  " 

"  Why,  Sar-ah  I  "  said  Mr.  Butterwell,  placidly. 

Upon  the  sill  of  the  open  window,  during  the 
unwonted  domestic  excitement  of  that  summer 
evening,  a  felt  hat  with  a  boy  under  it  had  sympa 
thetically  and  prudently  reposed.  Nobody  minded 
Handy.  He  looked  in  and  out  unnoticed,  with 
wide-apart,  dumb  eyes,  like  the  pony.  Sometimes 
Yorke  wondered  dimly  if  anybody  had  fed  and 
watered  him  ;  but  even  that  was  an  intellectual 
effort  disproportionate  to  the  proposition.  It  was 
a  long  time  since  the  doctor  had  lost  a  patient. 
Handy  regarded  it  as  an  epoch  in  human  history. 
He  felt  that  the  event  reflected  importance  upon 
himself,  who  might  be  said  to  have  had  a  share  in 
the  glory  of  the  circumstance.  He  felt  above  the 
company  of  the  pony  and  Old  Oak  that  night ,-  and 
though  the  bosom  of  the  family,  as  expressed  by 
the  window-sill,  was  a  little  hard,  there  is  a  com 
pensatory  pleasure  in  finding  one's  social  level. 


116  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

Handy  remained  there,  after  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Butter- 
well  had  gone.  It  seemed  to  him.  that  this  lame 
gentleman  encroached  somewhat  upon  bis  (Han 
dy 's)  rights  in  exhibiting  so  much  interest  in  that 
dead  baby.  That  was  a  professional  matter  mainly 
between  himself  and  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Yorke,  left  alone,  after  a  few  moments' 
thought,  bent  his  head  upon  the  top  of  his  crutch, 
sitting  quite  still.  The  red  and  purple  light  of  the 
Japanese  gentlemen  on  the  little  lantern,  flashed 
and  defined  his  profile.  Handy  vaguely  resented 
its  expression.  The  old  felt  hat  slipped  softly 
from  the  window-sill,  and  betook  itself  confidently 
to  the  doctor's  side  of  the  house.  The  office  door 
was  open  to  the  warm  night.  Handy  peeked.  He 
peeked  without  a  qualm.  He  regarded  it  as  one 
of  his  privileges  to  follow  the  doctor's  private  ca 
reer.  Who  had  as  good  a  right  ? 

Doctor  Zay  was  sitting  by  her  office  table.  A 
half-open  drawer  showed  surgical  instruments. 
Rows  of  vials  exhibited  mysteries  of  white  pellets 
and  powders.  Medical  books  lay  open  underneath 
her  hat  and  gloves,  which  she  had  tossed  down  on 
coming  in.  But  Handy  regarded  these  points 
with  the  apathy  of  familiarity.  The  environment 
did  not  interest  this  scientific  child.  Doctor  Zay, 
who  drove  the  fastest  horse  in  Sherman,  who  al- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  117 

ways  knew  by  an  awful  omniscience  whether  you 
missed  a  pailful  or  shook  the  oat-measure ;  Doc 
tor  Zay,  who  had  got  old  Doctor  Adoniram's 
practice  half  away  from  him ;  Handy's  Doctor 
Zay,  was  bent  and  bowed  over  her  office  table,  her 
face  crushed  into  her  resolute  hands, 'as  if  she  had 
been  stricken  down  by  a  power  that  no  man  could 
see. 

If  Handy's  education  had  progressed  a  little 
farther  he  would  have  called  this  a  phenomenon. 
As  it  was,  he  could  only  say,  — 

"  It's  a  thunderin'  Ananias  'n'  Sapphiry  shame. 
Nothin'  but  a  Bailey  baby !  " 

It  occurred  to  Handy,  as  he  walked  sadly  away, 
over  the  heavy  wet  heads  of  the  clover-tops,  back 
to  the  sawdust  heap  by  the  wood-pile,  that  perhaps 
he  had  peeped  as  far  for  that  one  night  as  the  per 
quisites  of  his  calling  allowed. 

"  Two  of  'em,"  reflected  Handy.  "  Heads  down, 
like  unlucky  coppers.  One  on  his  crutch.  T'other 
on  her  learnin.'  Bobailey  'n'  all  his  tribe  ain't 
wuth  it." 

Handy  was  confusedly  jealous  of  something. 
He  imagined  it  was  Bob  Bailey. 

The  doctor  was  called  out  that  night  to  see  a 
poor  girl,  three  miles  away.  Handy  accompanied 
her.  As  they  drove  through  the  chilly  dawn  alone 


118  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

together,  Handy's  emotions  waxed  mighty  within 
him. 

"  Doctor  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  pleasant  confidential 
way. 

"  Well,  Handy  ?  " 

"Is  Mr.  Yorke  wuss?" 

"  Why,  no,  Handy." 

"  Ain't  wrong  in  his  head  or  nothin,'  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Handy." 

"Well.  I  did  n't  know.  While  you  was  takin' 
on  so  about  the  Baileybaby,  he  flopped  over  on 
them  Bangor  crutches,  and  says  he,  '  Poor  girl ! ' 
He  says  it  out  loud.  I  heern  him.  Now,  you 
know,  you  ain't  a  girl ;  you  're  a  doctor.  I  thought 
may  be  he  was  a  mite  loony,  and  we  'd  ought  to 
look  after  him.  Do  you  keep  any  medicine  for 
loons,  Doctor  ?  " 

She  made  her  call,  as  usual,  the  next  morning  ; 
a  very  short  one.  Yorke  had  hoped  he  knew  not 
what,  he  knew  not  why,  from  it ;  she  left  him  only 
his  powders  and  his  disappointment.  It  was  im 
possible  to  draw  her  within  telescopic  sweep  of  a 
personality.  She  had  seemed  near  to  him  in  that 
outburst  of  grief,  last  night,  as  if  some  kindly  or 
friendly  impulse  in  her  reached  out  its  hands  to 
him  ;  precisely  by  the  width  of  that  impulse  was 
she  now  removed.  He  had  his  day's  orders  from 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  119 

his  doctor  ;  nothing  more.  She  looked,  as  Mrs. 
Butterwell  had  prophesied,  really  ill.  He  thought 
of  her  ;  he  thought  of  her  till  he  was  ashamed  to 
think  how  long  it  was  since  he  had  thought  of 
anything  else.  The  terrible  leisure  of  invalidism 
gaped,  a  gulf,  and  filled  itself  with  her.  If  he 
could  have  arisen  like  a  man,  and  bridged  it,  or 
like  a  hero,  and  leaped  into  it,  she  would  never, 
he  said  to  himself  doggedly,  have  this  exquisite 
advantage  over  him.  He  lay  there  like  a  woman, 
reduced  from  activity  to  endurance,  from  resolve 
to  patience,  while  she  amassed  her  importance  to 
him,  —  how  idly  !  —  like  gold  that  she  gave  her 
self  no  trouble  to  count. 

He  was  surprised  that  night  at  receiving  a  sec 
ond  visit ;  but  his  momentary  gratification  quickly 
spent  itself.  Pier  errand  was  to  inform  him  that 
she  should  not  come  again. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Doctor  Lloyd,"  said 
the  young  man,  with  an  effort  at  composure  ;  his 
breath  shortened,  and  he  felt  dizzy  and'  faint. 

"  Oh,  I  mean,  if  you  are  able,  won't  you  come 
to  the  office?"  she  answered  wearily.  "I  am 
preoccupied,  and  begin  wrong  end  foremost.  I  do 
not  mean  to  neglect  you.  But  I  really  think  you 
able  to  get  around  to  my  door.  The  air  and  exer 
cise  will  be  beneficial  to  you.  There  is  no  reason 


120  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

for  ray  coming  to  you  so  often.  You  can  take  the 
morning  hour,  from  eight  to  nine,  or  the  one  at 
noon,  as  you  prefer." 

She  gave  that  slight  and  fine  emphasis  of  hers 
to  the  word  "  reason." 

"  This  means  that  I  am  not  to  see  you  —  here 
—  any  longer?  " 

"  Not  unless  it  is  necessary." 

"  Suppose  I  find  it  necessary,  Doctor  Lloyd  ?" 

"  I  must  be  the  judge  of  that,  Mr.  Yorke." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Yorke,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "  I  will  come  to  your  office  to-morrow." 

He  went.  He  stumped  around  on  the  Bangor 
crutches  over  the  piazza  to  the  office  door,  which 
set  forth  the  legend  "  Z.  A.  Lloyd,  M.  D.,"  in 
modest  little  letters  of  gray  and  gold.  The  recep 
tion-room  was  partly  full.  Five  or  six  women  sat 
there,  and  a  child  or  two  ;  one  man,  a  lumberman, 
who  said  Puella  said  she  wanted  more  powders  for 
that  crookedness  in  her  mind.  Another  man  came, 
while  Yorke  waited,  with  what  he  called  an  "  or 
der  "  for  an  immediate  call  on  his  wife.  Doctor 
Zay  nodded  to  Yorke  pleasantly  when  she  came 
out,  but  did  not  speak.  He  perceived  that  he  was 
to  bide  his  turn,  like  any  other  patient.  The  doc 
tor  said,  "  Next  ?  "  as  if  they  had  been  children  at 
school.  She  was  abstracted  and  pale.  She  had 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  121 

that  look  of  application  which  failed  of  being  beau 
tiful.  The  reception-room  was  rather  pleasant. 
It  was  clear  that  the  young  lady  furnished  her  own 
part  of  the  house.  Yorke  took  in  an  idle,  luxuri 
ous  sense  of  familiar  photographs  and  even  a  high- 
art  carpet.  There  were  flowers  all  over  the  room, 
and  a  table  covered  with  books  and  periodicals  for 
the  patients.  Some  of  the  women  were  reading. 
He  took  up  yesterday's  Boston  Advertiser,  and 
hid  his  amusement,  if  not  his  embarrassment  be 
hind  it. 

Presently  he  realized  that  they  had  all  gone. 
Doctor  Zay  stood  waiting  for  him,  gravely.  He 
followed  her  into  the  office  ;  a  tiny  room,  hardly 
more  than  a  generous  closet.  She  shut  the  door, 
and  motioned  him  to  a  chair.  She  took  her  own 
at  the  desk  where  the  vials  were.  Her  ledgers 
and  note-book,  and  one  or  two  volumes  of  Materia 
Medica,  were  lying  about.  The  office,  he  saw  at 
once,  was  lined  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  book 
cases,  all  full.  The  doctor  waited  a  moment,  as  if 
for  him  to  begin  his  daily  report.  He  did  not. 
She  raised  her  eyes  quickly  to  his  face,  and  that 
sensitive  change  he  liked  so  much  crossed  her  own. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  signs  of  embar 
rassment  in  her.  She  colored  a  little,  and  he 
smiled. 


122  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Really,  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think  this 
is  an  improvement  ?  " 

She  hesitated  before  she  answered  :  "  Really,  I 
—  don't  know." 

"  Keeping  me  here  among  all  those  ladies,  —  the 
only  fellow,  except  Puella's.  He  did  n't  stay  by 
me  long.  I  think,  for  my  own  part,  it  was  much 
better  in  my  room." 

"  Perhaps  it  was,"  she  admitted,  "  but  "  — 

"  But  you  don't  want  to  come  any  longer  ?  " 

"  Frankly,  Mr.  Yorke,  no." 

"  Then  you  sha'n't.  I  won't  be  more  disagree 
able  than  I  must.  I  will  come  to  the  office,  as  you 
wish.  But  why  cannot  I  have  a  separate  hour, 
after  the  women  are  gone?  It  seems  to  me  it 
would  be  quite  as  pleasant,  and  much  less  "  —  he, 
too,  hesitated  before  adding,  "  noticeable." 

"  I  hardly  know,"  said  Doctor  Zay,  knitting  her 
brows.  "  There  are  no  precedents,  exactly."  He 
had  never  seen  her  irresolute  before.  She  looked 
fatigued  and  annoyed.  "  There  are  new  questions 
constantly  arising,"  she  went  on,  "  for  a  woman  in 
my  position.  One  ceases  to  be  an  individual.  One 
acts  for  the  whole,  —  for  the  sex,  for  a  cau|e,  for 
a  future.  We  are  not  quite  free,  like  other  peo 
ple,  in  little  perplexities.  It  is  what  Paul  said 
about  no  man's  living  to  himself.  We  pay  a  price 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  123 

for  our  privilege.  I  suppose  everything  in  this 
world  renders  its  cost,  but  nothing  so  heavily, 
nothing  so  relentlessly,  as  an  unusual  purpose  in 
a  woman.  Nothing  is  more  expensive  than  sus 
tained  usefulness, — or  what  one  tries  to  make 
such.  I  hate  to  think  of  petty  things !  "  she 
added,  with  some  fire. 

"  Then  don't !  "  urged  the  young  man.  "  I  can 
not  see  the  need  of  it,  in  a  case  like  yours.  You 
are  an  antidote  to  pettiness.  You  eat  it  out,  like 
a  swift  and  beautiful  vitriol.  You  would  make  us 
all  ashamed  of  it.  It  cannot  exist  where  you  are. 
I  felt  that  in  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  And 
pretense,  —  I  had  got  so  tired  of  pretense.  You 
went  on  your  way  so  simply.  You  were  so  thor 
ough.  I  said,  There  is  a  trained  woman.  She 
is  honest  all  through.  She  has  t;ie  modesty  of 
knowledge.  I  thought  all  this  while  you  were 
tying  that  artery,  before  I  fainted.  What  a  faint 
that  was !  " 

."  You  overestimate  me,  Mr.  Yorke,"  said  the 
doctor,  rather  distantly.  And  yet  he  was  sure 
that  he  had  not  displeased  her. 

"  I  have  sometimes  wondered,"  he  went  on,  with 
an  awkward  courage,  "  what  you  thought  of  me, 
the  first  time  you  saw  me.  I  dare  say  you  could 
n't  remember.  I  don't  presume,  believe  me,  that 
it  was  of  so  much  importance." 


124  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  perfectly,"  said  Doctor 
Zay,  laughing.  "  I  thought,  Concussion  and  dis 
location  !  Possibly  a  fine  compound  fracture.  I 
have  never  had  a  compound  fracture.  I  've  al 
ways  wanted  one." 

"  And  I  have  always  thought,  always  maintained, 
that  the  scientific  temperament  is  the  hardest 
among  civilized  types.  '  He  broke  himself  against 
that  flint,'  I  heard  said  once  of  a  sensitive  man,  in 
a  miserable  instance,  — it  happened  to  be  a  mar 
riage,  but  that  does  n't  affect  the  point.  One 
comes  upon  such  a  nature  as  against  the  glacial 
period:  it  solidifies  against  you;  it  never  bends 
nor  shatters  "  — 

"  Nor  melts  ?  "  she  asked,  smiling  (he  could 
see)  out  of  pure  mischief. 

"  In  the  course  of  ages,  I  suppose.  Too  late  to 
be  of  practical  service.  One  freezes  in  the  pro 
cess." 

"  The  best  thing  that  could  happen !  "  she  said 
quickly. 

A  white  light  darted  over  the  young  man's  face, 
and  passed.  He  was  a  remarkably  fine-looking 
fellow  in  these  swift  pallors.  He  shook  himself, 
as  if  to  shake  his  weakness  off. 

"  Come,  Doctor,"  he  said,  lightly  enough. 
"  Tell  me !  Was  that  all  you  thought  when  I 
fell  into  your  remorseless  hands  ?" 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  125 

"  No,"  she  said  gravely  and  gently.  "  I  thought 
—  His  mother  would  not  know  him." 

"  Was  I  so  hideous  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  were  badly  mangled." 

"  Well,  I  am  even  with  you.  That  first  time 
you  touched  me,  I  thought  I  was  in  hell." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  you  made  the  fact  quite  evident, 
particularly  when  I  set  the  ankle." 

"And  now,"  he  said,  leaning  his  head  back  in 
the  office  chair,  and  dreamily  regarding  her  across 
the  little  distance  that  separated  them,  —  "  now  I 
am  in  "  — 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  watch,  and  moved  back 
her  chair. 

"  I  have  spent  fifteen  minutes  on  you !  "  she 
said,  in  a  tone  of  vexation  too  genuine  to  be  mis 
taken  by  the  blindest  feeling  for  a  freak  of  femi 
nine  coyness.  "So  long  out  of  this  short  morn 
ing  !  And  I  have  thirty-two  calls  to  make  before 
supper.  Continue  the  remedy  that  you  have,  till 
to-morrow.  Then  call  on  me  again, — here.  Come 
at  noon  ;  the  office  will  not  be  so  full,  then.  You 
may  be  a  little  late,  if  you  like.  You  may  come 
to  me  twice  a  week,  now,  for  an  office  call.  If  you 
need  extra  attention,  —  but  I  do  not  think  you 
will,  —  I  will  call  on  you,  as  formerly.  You  must 
excuse  me  now." 


126  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Twice  a  iveelc  !  "  cried  the  patient.  She  made 
him  no  answer,  rang  her  bell  for  Handy,  and  put 
ting  on  her  feathered  hat,  walked  rapidly  away. 

Yorke  sat  in  the  office  a  few  minutes  where  she 
had  left  him ;  he  looked  confusedly  about.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  taking  her  up  in  new 
and  unknown  conditions,  like  the  second  volume 
of  a  novel.  He  turned  the  leaves  with  a  dull  un 
easiness.  Something  in  him  urged,  "  Throw  the 
book  down  !  "  He  searched  his  soul  for  power  to 
arise  and  do  so.  He  found  there  only  a  great  com 
pulsion,  as  silent  and  as  terrible  as  the  thread  in 
the  hand  of  Lachesis,  which  he  knew  would  bind 
him  down  to  read  on  to  the  end. 


VII. 

HE  did  not  go  at  noon.  It  occurred  to  him  in 
the  morning  that  he  was  well  enough  to  wait  till 
the  evening  office.  He  dreamed  away  his  day  on 
the  piazza,  watching  her  as  she  went  and  came  ; 
lost  in  admiration  of  his  own  self-restraint,  and  in 
a  nebulous  impression  that  it  was  time  to  take 
matters  into  a  more  strictly  masculine  control. 

She  did  not  come  home  till  eight  o'clock.  The 
July  twilight  was  already  deepening  down. 
Handy  came  up  from  the  depths  of  the  sawdust- 
heap  and  retired  from  public  life  with  Old  Oak; 
the  doctor  went  to  her  supper ;  and  Yorke  got 
around  into  the  reception-room,  and  waited  for 
her  in  the  dusk.  No  other  patients  were  there. 
Roses  were  in  the  room  somewhere,  —  he .  could 
not  see  them.  The  folds  of  the  long  muslin  cur 
tains  drifted  in  the  warm  wind.  The  rows  of 
books  in  the  office,  seen  through  the  open  door, 
looked  fuller  for  the  darkness.  Beyond  them,  an 
other  door  led  into  the  doctor's  private  parlor.  He 
had  heard  Mrs.  Butterwell  say  that  her  lodger  liud 
three  rooms  below  ("two  and  a  half,"  Mrs.  But- 


128  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

terwell  called  them),  and  one  up-stairs.  This 
other  door  was  half  open,  swinging  idly  on  its 
hinges  in  the  perfumed  air.  He  sat  and  watched 
it  till  she  came  in.  It  did  not  open  ;  it  would  not 
shut. 

She  did  not  see  him  at  first,  and  he  admired  the 
fine  unconsciousness  of  her  movements  jis  she 
crossed  the  rooms.  She  lighted  her  German  stu 
dent  lamp  on  the  office  table,  and,  pulling  a  for 
midable  professional  book  towards  her,  without  a 
moment's  irresolution,  plunged  into  its  contents 
with  the  headlong  dash  which  only  an  absorbing 
intellectual  passion  gives.  She  leaned  her  head 
upon  her  hand,  with  her  controlled  profile  towards 
him,  while  she  read.  He  contrasted  this  little  act 
cruelly  with  his  invalid  reveries. 

A  woman  who  says,  "  My  life  is  too  full  to  have 
need  of  you,"  will  be  met  by  the  historic  mascu 
line  privilege  of  reply,  "You  take  the  trouble  to 
mention  it.  I  reserve  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 
Doctor  Zay  took  the  trouble  to  mention  nothing. 

The  young  man  had  seen  for  himself  what  all  the 
little  feminine  protest  in  the  world  could  never 
have  made  patent  to  his  imagination :  a  woman 
absorbed  in  her  business,  to  whom  a  man  must  be 
the  accident,  not  the  substance,  of  thought. 

He   rose  at  once,  and  made   her  aware  of  his 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  129 

presence.  She  expressed  the  slight,  superficial 
surprise  of  a  preoccupied  person,  whose  life  brings 
her  in  constant  contact  with  the  unexpected.  She 
met  him  very  cordially.  He  vaguely  felt  that  she 
approved  of  him  for  staying  away  half  a  day  longer 
than  was  necessary.  He  limped  over  to  the  office 
chair.  She  shut  the  door,  and  he  surrendered  him 
self  to  the  brief  medical  consultation.  She  found  it 
necessary  to  examine  the  injured  foot,  upon  which 
she  laid  for  a  moment  her  vital,  healing  touch. 

"  You  would  get  on  much  faster  if  this  foot  could 
be  properly  treated  every  day,  Mr.  Yorke.  There 
is  not  a  massage  rubber  short  of  Bangor.  You 
need  one  now.  You  have  reached  the  stage  where 
I  should  recommend  it  decidedly.  I  am  sorry." 

Yorke  made  no  reply  ;  he  dared  not,  he  was  so 
sure  that  he  should  say  something  unexpected  to 
himself  and  annoying  to  her  ;  and  she  brought  the 
consultation  to  an  end.  As  he  went  away  she 
told  him  that  she  desired  him  to  ride  the  next  day. 
His  ankle,  she  thought,  would  bear  the  motion,  — 
one  of  the  last  experiments  before  walking,  —  and 
he  would  have  a  driver,  ol  course.  She  gave  the 
order  lightly,  the  means  by  which  it  was  to  be 
obeyed  not  being  the  physician's  concern. 

"I  should  like  it,  of  all  things,"  said  Yorke, im 
pulsively,  "  if  I  may.  But  it  is  so  dull  with  a 


130  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

driver,  and  Mr.  Butterwell  is  going  to  Bangor,  you 
know,  for  several  days.  I  don't  doubt  he  would 
offer  to  take  me,  if  he  were  here.  I  wish  "  — 

"  Why,  I  suppose  I  might  take  you,"  said  Doc 
tor  Zay,  after  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause.  "  I 
never  thought  of  it !  " 

"  I  did  n't  suppose  you  did,"  said  Yorke,  laugh 
ing  ;  "  but  I  don't  see  why  I  should  n't  go,  —  if 
you  won't  let  me  bore  you,  that  is,  —  do  you?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  will  take  you  with  pleasure. 
I  often  take  patients  in  the  summer.  It  is  stupid 
waiting.  You  won't  find  it  an  exciting  process, 
I  warn  you.  But  it  will  be  better  for  you  than 
moping  on  the  piai|p,.  You  have  done  enough 
of  that." 

"Quite  enough,  I*think,"  said  Yorke,  looking 
fully  into  her  upraisfd  eyes. 

"  Persistent  pallor  !  "  said  the  doctor,  in  a  medi 
tative  tone.  "  Tendency  to  fixed  ideas.  This  ac 
cords  with  other  symptoms  I  have  noted.  I  must 
look  it  up  carefully ;  but  I  feel  pretty  sure  I  shall 
give  you" — her  face  lighted  with  the  fervor  of 
the  symptomatologist — "I  shall  give  you  carbo 
vegetabilis  !  " 

They  rode.  They  rode  three  hours  through  the 
warmth  and  scent  of  roadside  things,  while  the 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  131" 

summer  morning  waxed  indolently  towards  the 
splendid  noon.  Yorke  bore  the  experiment  with 
remarkable  success.  The  doctor  attributed  this  to 
the  cavbo  vegetabilis. 

She  chatted  cordially  with  him,  as  they  drove 
over  the  long,  solitary  intervals  that  separated  one 
call  from  another  ;  or  she  came  from  a  grave  case 
to  sit  in  the  phaeton  silent  and  distrait,  and  mind 
him  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  Handy ;  or  a  pa 
tient  was  responding  to  a  difficult  diagnosis  or  a 
pet  theory,  and  she  radiated  her  happiness  upon 
him.  He  did  not  try  to  talk  much.  He  absorbed 
her  idly,  as  he  did  returning  life  and  the  throbbing 
clay.  He  had  never  been  beside  her  for  so  long 
before.  He  thought  of  that  first  ride  through  the 
Maine  forest,  and  said  dreamily,  — 

"  It  seems  like  a  modern  magazine  serial  that  I 
should  be  driving  with  the  caryatid.  But  I  have 
not  overtaken  Atalanta.  There  is  the  Greek  trag 
edy.  No,  don't  turn  to  your  note-book.  I  am  not 
delirious  —  yet.  You  need  not "  — 

"  Need  not  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  Need  not  change  the  remedy.    It  works  well." 

"  You  speak  in  figures,"  said  the  woman  of  sci 
ence,  curtly.     "  I  am  a  person  of  facts.     I  fail  to 
follow  you." 
•   They  called  at  those  Baileys'  who  had  become 


132  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

historic  during  the  scarlet  fever,  and  Yorke  looked 
about  him  with  vague  reminiscences.  The  woman 
came  to  the  door  to  welcome  the  doctor,  extending 
her  lean  arm. 

"There!  It's  the  sign-post  woman!"  cried 
Yorke.  "  We  owe  it  all  to  her." 

"  You  are  strangling  in  allegory,  again.  It  is  a 
case  of  asphyxia,"  said  the  doctor,  handing  him 
the  blue  reins. 

"  I  mean,  we  owe  it  to  her  that  I  ever  got  to 
Sherman,  — a  precious  sort  of  debt  you  think  it ! 
Your  eyes  laugh  loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  Ban- 
gor.  You  might  spare  a  shattered  man  so  inno 
cent  a  delusion.  Science  would  be  none  the  less 
exact  for  it.  Hang  —  no,  bless  Mrs.  Bailey  !  It 
was  she  who  put  me  up  to  —  By  the  way,  Doctor, 
did  you  drop  it  by  accident,  or  did  you  mean  "  — 

"  How 's  that  leg  of  Bob's  ?  "  asked  the  doctor, 
in  her  happy  soprano.  She  was  half-way  up  the 
dreary  front  yard.  The  children  ran  to  meet  her, 
—  a  forlorn  little  batch,  —  and  the  woman  clung 
to  her  with  an  uncouth,  pathetic  gesture,  half 
reverence,  half  fearless  love.  Mrs.  Bailey  never 
thought  of  paying  a  doctor's  bill,  but  she  wore 
new  mourning  for  her  baby.  Her  affection  was 
none  the  less  genuine  for  that.  Doctor  Zay  did 
not  grudge  her  the  sleazy  alpaca. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  133 

There  was  a  sacredness  to  the  physician  beyond 
the  pale  of  enlightened  social  science,  in  the  clasp 
of  those  scraggy  black  arms.  Mrs.  Bailey  might 
outrage  political  economy,  and  retard  the  millen 
nium  by  becoming  a  pauper ;  but  she  trusted  her 
doctor,  and  had  lost  her  baby. 

Yorke  knew  little  about  people  of  this  sort ;  he 
had  left  the  lower  orders  of  society  to  his  mother, 
with  a  dim  sense  of  their  usefulness  in  providing 
an  outlet  for  her  superfluous  sympathies.  Boston 
women  must  always  have  an  outlet.  His  mother 
kept  herself  supplied  with  several.  He  thought, 
as  he  sat  in  the  phaeton  waiting  for  this  unusual 
young  lady  to  exchange  the  society  of  the  Baileys 
for  his  own,  that  she  possessed  a  power  which  was 
far  more  masculine  than  feminine,  of  absorption  in 
the  immediate  task.  He  thought  it  would  go  hard 
with  a  man  to  haunt  her.  She  would  shake  him  off 
for  what  she  called  objects  in  life,  as  a  fine  spaniel 
shakes  off  the  drops  after  a  plunge  into  the  sea ; 
earth  is  his  element,  after  all. 

Bob  Bailey  had  cut  one  of  the  femoral  muscles 
on  a  mowing-machine.  The  doctor  etherized  him, 
and  sewed  the  leg  up,  enthusiastically.  The  odor 
of  the  ether  permeated  the  fresh  morning,  and 
Yorke  sickened  over  it  in  the  phaeton.  She  came 
out  presently,  with  that  cool,  scientific  eye  which 
Stimulated  more  than  it  defied  him. 


134  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  I  had  forgotten  you  were  here  !  "  she  said,  as 
she  took  the  reins.  "  Are  you  tired  waiting  ?  " 

"I  am  not  patient  by  nature,  but  may  become 
so  b^-  grace.  I  am  cherishing  a  host  of  feminine 
*  virtues,"  replied  Yorke,  stretching  his  big  dimen 
sions  in  the  little  carriage.  "  I  shall  make  rather 
a  superior  woman  by  the  time  I  get  well.  Like 
the  man  who  had  a  damp  cellar :  it  was  good  for 
nothing  else,  so  he  grew  mushrooms  in  it.  These 
beautiful  characteristics  which  suffering  or  you, 
—  it 's  all  the  same  thing  "  — 

"  Why,  thank  you  !  " 

—  "  Are  cultivating  in  me,  are  "  — 

"  Mushrooms  ?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  so.  They  won't  live  long.  I  am 
not  a  woman,  unfortunately.  I  am  only  an  ar 
rested  development.  It  is  something,  though,  in 
this  world,  to  be  even  a  lost  opportunity." 

"  Call  it  a  rudiment,"  was  the  scientific  sugges 
tion.  "And  I  am  glad  you  reach  the  subject  of 
mushrooms,  Mr.  Yorke,  of  your  own  accord.  It  is 
precisely  the  point  to  which  I  wish  to  conduct 
your  botanical  education.  When  one  knows  enough 
not  to  expect  a  mushroom  to  be,  say,  an  aloe,  one 
is  prepared  for  life.  You  will  recover.  I  like  the 
symptom." 

"  Symptom  !  "  cried   the  young  man  irritably. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  135 

"  Everything,  with  you,  is  a  symptom.  I  am 
growing  nervous  over  the  sound  of  the  word." 

"  Morbid  sensitiveness  to  trifles.  I  must  con 
sider  that  in  your  next  remedy.  Well,  and  why 
not,  Mr.  Yorke?  Most  things  are  symptoms. 
Life  is  only  a  pathological  experiment." 

"  That  is  a  narrow  professional  view." 

"  All  views  are  narrow.  Let  me  advise  you  to 
have  as  few  as  possible." 

"  I  am  tired  of  being  advised,"  said  Yorke  wea 
rily. 

Her  eyes  brimmed  with  frolic.  "  Do  you  want 
to  go  home  ?  Or  change  your  doctor  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  think  I  will  do  both,  to-morrow." 

"  You  could  not  do  a  better  thing,"  said  Doctor 
Zay,  carelessly. 

"  Do  you  think  me  able  to  travel  so  far?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  that.  Much  depends  on  the  pa 
tient.  There  are  collateral  dangers  in  all  cases. 
Many  cures  consist  in  a  fine  choice  of  risks. 
Therapeutics,  as  Hamilton  said  of  conversation,  is 
always  a  selection." 

Yorke  regarded  her  steadily.  "  I  shall  not  go," 
he  said  with  decision,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

They  rode.  He  drank  in  the  divine  healing  of 
the  day.  They  talked  of  safe  subjects,  —  anesthet 
ics  and  Materia  Medica.  Yorke  had  always  be- 


136  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

fore,  regarded  homoeopathy  as  a  private  hobby  of 
his  mother's.  He  was  interested  in  this  young 
woman's  clear-headed  exposition  of  a  theory  to 
which  he  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  himself  a 
grateful,  if  not  a  convincing  testimony.  With  the 
irresponsibility  of  the  laity,  he  amused  himself 
with  her  fervor,  while  revering  her  skill.  When 
she  alluded  to  the  Divine  Truth  in  connection  with 
her  sugar-plums,  he  laughed.  But  when  they 
drove  over  that  bridge  whence  the  Bangor  pony 
had  plunged  to  his  last  account,  the  young  man 
grew  respectfully  grave.  He  experienced  at  mo 
ments  a  species  of  awe  of  this  studious  and  in 
structed  lady ;  not  so  much  because  of  her  learn 
ing,  which  was  unquestionable,  nor  of  her  beauti 
ful  inborn  fitness  for  the  art  of  healing,  which  was 
as  clear  as  the  flash  of  her  eye,  as  for  the  fact  that, 
in  spite  of  these  circumstances,  she  could  be  a 
charming  creature. 

The  swift  morning  grew  into  the  high,  hot  noon. 
The  dew  dried  on  the  white  clover  by  the.  road 
side.  The  dust  flew  a  little.  Yorke  was  tired,  de 
spite  himself,  and  glad  when  the  doctor  took  a 
cross-cut  through  a  wood-path  to  make  her  last  call. 
It  was  a  poor  girl,  she  said,  who  had  few  friends. 
They  passed  a  saw-mill,  as  they  drove  to  this  place. 
The  wheel  was  silent.  The  water  dripped  from  it 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  187 

with  a  cool  sound.  The  men  were  separating  to 
their  dinner ;  one  remained  at  work  above  the 
dam.  Yorke  observed  with  admiration  his  prac 
ticed  step  upon  the  slippery  logs  which  floated, 
chained,  over  the  deep,  black  pool. 

Doctor  Zay  drove  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
stopped.  She  would  leave  him  in  the  shade,  she 
said,  and  walk  up  to  her  patient's ;  it  was  but  a 
step.  Yorke  made  no  protest.  He  had  long  since 
learned  that  it  was  hopeless  to  argue  with  his  phy 
sician.  He  sat  and  rested  in  the  green  coolness, 
till  she  returned. 

She  was  gone  about  twenty  minutes,  and  came 
out  abstracted  and  stern.  She  did  not  speak  at 
first,  or  take  the  reins,  but  sat  still,  with  a  twitch 
ing  of  all  the  delicate  facial  muscles  which  in 
other  women  would  have  meant  a  shower  of  tears 
or  a  tornado  of  anger. 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Yorke,  conscious  how  imbecile 
the  monosyllable  sounded,  but  not  daring  to  add 
another. 

"  She  has  just  told  me  who  it  is  that  is  to 
blame  ! "  said  the  physician  in  a  low,  surcharged 
voice. 

Yorke  uttered  a  sympathetic  ejaculation,  as  her 
meaning  flashed  upon  him.  He  felt  touched  both 
at  the  simplicity  and  the  solemnity  of  her  words. 


188  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

Nothing  of  the  sort  had  occurred  to  him,  when 
she  spoke  about  her  "  poor  girl."  Nothing  could 
have  revealed  to  him,  as  did  this  little  shock,  the 
gravity  and  sacredness  of  her  work.  Alas !  what 
could  have  so  betrayed  to  him  the  gulf  between 
her  dedicated  life  and  his  own  ? 

"I  have  tried  for  some  time  to  learn,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  unwonted  agitation.  "  The  poor  thing 
opened  her  heart  to  me  just  now.  You  cannot 
think  how  such  things  affect  me.  He  was  per 
fectly  free  to  marry  her.  There  is  nothing  too  bad 
for  him  !  I  have  no  mercy  for  such  men,  —  none  ! 
I  wish —  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Yorke,"  she  interrupted 
herself.  "  There  is  a  professional  thoughtlessness  ; 
I  hope  I  do  not  often  fall  into  it.  I  was  overborne 
by  the  poor  thing's  trouble.  She  is  such  a  pretty 
creature.  It  would  break  your  heart  to  see  her. 
And  the  women  all  depend  on  me  so ;  they  think 
there  is  nothing  beyond  my  power.  Why,  she 
clings  to  me  as  if  she  thouaht  I  could  undo  it  all, 
—  could  make  her  what  she  used  to  be  again  !  I 
believe  she  does.  It  is  more  than  I  can  I  ear." 

His  own  eyes  filled,  43  he  saw  the  slow,  strong 
tears,  beaten  back  and  -dreaded,  gather  on  her  lids. 
All  the  littleness  and  pretense  and  shallow  barrier 
of  the  world  slipped  away  from  them,  as  they  sat 
there  together  in  the  forest.  They  did  not  seetn 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  139 

any  more  to  be  young  and  unfamiliar,  or  even  man 
and  woman,  but  only  two  human  beings,  who 
could  arise  and  go  hand  in  hand  to  meet  the  sol 
emn  need  of  all  the  world.  To  Yorke  it  was  a 
moment  that  he  wished  might  never  end. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  she  said  gen 
tly, - 

"  I  have  tired,  or  perhaps  shocked  you.  We 
will  go  home  now.  It  is  not  my  habit  to  speak  of 
my  cares  to  my  patients.  You  must  "  — 

"  Help,  Help  !     Oh,  for  God's  sake,  HELP !  " 

A  terrible  cry  interrupted  the  doctor.  It  came 
from  the  mill-pond,  whose  dam  frowned  over  their 
heads.  The  thin  cascade  of  the  falls  drooped  like 
lace  against  the  wall  of  stone.  The  trees  gathered 
close  about  the  water,  and  Yorke  looked  up  to  the 
sky,  as  out  of  a  well.  He  could  see  nothing  else. 
The  cry  died  in  a  gurgling  sound.  Yorke  sprang, 
putting  the  woman  by  ;  he  forgot  her. 

"  Mr.  Yorke,  stay  just  where  you  are  !  " 

An  imperious  voice,  a  firm  hand,  barred  his 
way. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  demanded  the  man. 

"  Not  an  inch  !  To  lame  yourself  for  life,  and 
help  nobody  !  You  never  "can  get  up  there.  Sit 
back  !  Take  the  reins  !  Drive  on  for  help  !  There 
must  be  men  at  dinner  behind  that  barn.  Do  as 
I  bid  you  !  Do  as  I  ask  you>  —  please." 


140  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

He  obeyed  her ;  lie  cursed  his  helplessness,  but 
he  obeyed.  She  was  already  out  of  his  sight,  be 
hind  the  saw-mill.  The  next  instant,  as  he  drove, 
lashing  the  pony,  he  saw  her  run  swiftly  out  upon 
the  chained  logs  above  the  dam.  lie  closed  his 
eyes.  She  poised  herself  like  a  chamois.  He  saw 
her  sink  upon  her  knees,  —  had  she  slipped  ?  His 
breath  came  fast  and  feeble.  The  road  darkened 
before  him,  and  the  forest  whirled. 

'.'  Am  I  going  to  do  such  a  lady-like  thing  as  to 
faint  ?  "  thought  the  sick  man.  He  fixed  his  eyes 
fiercely  upon  the  blue  reins,  —  they  seemed  to  re 
main  knotted  in  his  fingers ;  he  had  a  vision  of 
the  flying  road,  of  the  sudden  sun,  of  dashing  down 
upon  a  group  of  men,  of  seeing  figures  dart,  of 
cry  answering  to  cry  ;  and  his  next  precise  impres 
sion  was  that  he  had  been  sitting  in  the  bottom  of 
that  phaeton,  with  his  head  on  the  cushions,  longer 
than  he  supposed.  He  was  alone,  by  the  barn  she 
spoke  of.  All  the  men  were  gone.  He  gathered 
his  soul  together,  and  drove  back  as  he  had  come. 

A  cluster  of  men  hung  on  the  bank  above  the 
dam.  A  motionless  figure  lay  on  the  ground  in 
the  centre  of  the  group.  For  an  instant  Yorke 
could  see  nothing  distinctly. 

"  Turn  him  over  !  "  rang  out  a  clear,  sweet,  im-. 
perious  voice.  "  No,  not  so.  So.  This  way. 
There !  Now,  here,  Jenley  !  You  help  me.'' 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  141 

"  All  right,  Doctor  !  "  said  an  unseen  man.  Si 
lence  followed.  Yorke  bowed  his  face  upon  his 
crutch,  with  a  confused  idea  of  saying  his  prayers. 
All  he  could  think  of  was  the  Apostles'  Creed  and 
Fairy  Lilian.  The  trickle  of  the  fall  fell  cheer 
fully  over  the  dam. 

"  Tompkins,  you  here  !  "  came  the  word  of  com 
mand,  in  that  calm,  refined  voice.  "  Work  at  his 
feet,  as  I  bade  you.  Keep  the  arms,  Jenley.  Tear 
the  shirt,  —  don't  wait.  Harder,  Smith  !  Get 
more  blankets  from  the  house,  —  bed-quilts,  any 
thing.  And  flannel  cloths,  —  all  you  can  muster. 
Be  quiet.  Work  more  steadily.  Don't  get  ex 
cited.  I  want  even  motions,  —  so." 

Fifteen  minutes  passed.  One  of  the  men  spoke 
in  a  lone  tone  :  — 

"  He  don't  budge,  Doctor." 

She  made  no  answer.  They  worked  on  silently. 
Yorke  looked  at  his  watch.  Twenty-two  min 
utes. 

"  Ma.ke  that  chest  movement  just  as  I  told  you, 
Jenley  !  —  patiently.  Have  courage.  Give  me 
the  flannel,  Smith.  No.  Rub  upwards,  not  down  ; 
I  told  you  twice.  Harder.  Here,  I  '11  show  you." 

Twenty-six  minutes.  Half  an  hour.  The  lum 
bermen  began  to  mutter.  Yorke  could  hear  their 
faint  gutteral  protest. 


142  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  You  can't  resusentite  a  dead  man,  Doctor." 

"  He  's  dead,  that 's  gospel  sure,  —  deader  'n 
Judas." 

"  A  critter's  legs  don't  hang  that  way  if  he  's 
livin'." 

"  You  hain't  seen  so  many  drownded  lumbermen 
as  we  have,  young  lady." 

"  My  arms  ache,"  said  one  big  fellow  earnestly. 
"  I  've  rubbed  a  long  spell.  Give  him  up,  Doc 
tor?" 

"  Give  him  up  ?  No!"  came  down  the  ringing 
cry. 

Yorke  quivered  with  the  pride  he  felt  in  her. 
He  leaned  over  his  watch,  as  if  it  held  the  arrested 
heart-beats  of  the  human  life  for  which  the  brave 
girl  fought. 

Thirty-five  minutes.  Forty.  Forty-one  —  two 
—  three.  Forty-four  minutes. 

A  low,  awed  whisper  began  to  rustle  through 
the  group.  Some  of  the  men  dropped  on  their 
knees.  One  ran  towards  the  house.  She  seemed 
to  call  him  back,  to  utter  some  rapid  order ;  he 
started  off  again.  As  he  ran  past  the  phaeton  he 
called  to  Yorke,  — 

"  G-or  a'  mighty  she  's  fetched  him  !  " 

This  man  did  not  return. 
.  Yorke  was  sitting  in  a  picturesque  heap,  with 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  143 

his  crutches,  wondering  where  was  the  precise 
point  at  which  a  newly-acquired  tendency  to  faint 
ceased  to  be  physiology  and  became  psychology, 
and  how  long  he  should  maintain  himself  at  that 
cre-'li  able  juncture  in  philosophical  experience, 
when  he  felt  her  hand  upon  his  own. 

"  Drink  this,"  she  said  laconically.  He  looked 
up,  and  saw  that  she  had  coffee  in  her  hand  ;  he 
swallowed  it  obediently. 

"  We  have  got  him  into  the  house,"  she  said, 
speaking  rapidly.  "  Everything  goes  well.  I  know 
this  has  hurt  you.  But  I  don't  want  to  take  you 
home  yet.  I  have  a  reason.  Can  you  eat,  —  if  I 
desire  it  very  much  ?  " 

"  I  can  try,"  said  Yorke,  smiling  at  her  tone  ; 
she  really  pleaded. 

"  Then  I  will  sit  here  with  you,  and  we  will 
have  luncheon  together.  You  need  your  dinner. 
You  will  be  good  for  nothing  with  an  empty  stom 
ach.  There  !  It  will  gratify  me  if  you  will  eat 
half  this  bread." 

She  got  into  the  phaeton  and  sat  beside  him, 
leaning  back,  and  watching  him  with  a  gentle  ea 
gerness  which  he  would  have  dared  to  call  tender 
if  he  had  not  remembered  that  it  was  profes 
sional.  "  I  will  eat  it  all,"  said  Yorke. 

She  made  a  pretense  of  sharing  the  slice  with 


144  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

him,  but  he  could  see  that  she  was  keenly  excited. 
"Now,"  she  said,  when  the  bread  and  coffee  were 
gone,  "  are  you  better  ?  Are  you  strong  enough 
to  hear  what  I  want  of  you  ?  " 

"  Try  me,  and  see." 

"  They  are  together  there,"  —  she  pointed  to 
the  poor  girl's  house,  —  "  those  two,  who  ought  to 
be  together  for  all  their  lives.  He  is  the  man." 

"  The  drowned  man  ? "  cried  Yorke.  She 
nodded  fiercely. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  up  there  with  me.  I  want 
you  for  a  witness.  I  may  fail  in  the  thing,  but 
it 's  got  to  be  tried.  I  can't  have  any  of  those  fel 
lows  there,  and  there 's  nobody  at  home  but  a 
young  step-mother,  who  won't  come  near  us.  Are 
you  able  to  do  this  ?  " 

Yorke  replied  by  silently  taking  the  reins.  He, 
too,  felt  excited  and  strong.  They  drove  up  the 
steep,  short  hill,  and  close  to  the  poor  place.  At 
the  gate  stood  a  wagon,  containing  an  elderly  and 
gentlemanly  but  very  impatient  person.  A  few 
men  were  hanging  about  the  door-steps.  The  doc 
tor  helped  her  patient  out,  and  he  followed  her 
into  the  house,  asking  no  questions. 

They  went  into  a  low,  clean  room  on  the  ground 
floor.  A  man  was  there  upon  a  lounge,  swathed 
in  blankets  ;  he  was  ghastly  white.  A  girl  hung 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  145 

over  him  :  she  uttered  low,  inarticulate  cries ;  she 
rained  her  tears  upon  his  face,  his  hands,  —  nay, 
her  kisses  on  his  great,  coarse  feet,  as  if  he  were 
her  saviour.  The  doctor  shut  the  door  softly,  and 
Yorke  stood  uncovered  beside  her.  The  girl  no 
ticed  them  no  more  than  if  they  had  been  spirits. 

"  Why,  Molly ! "  said  the  fellow  weakly. 
"  Why,  Molly  !  I  hain't  done  so  well  by  you  that 
you  should  —  kiss  me  —  now.  I  don't  deserve  it," 
he  added,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  Molly,"  said  the  doctor,  coming  forward  with 
her  nervous  step,  "  leave  Jim  to  me  a  minute.  I 
want  to  talk  to  him." 

Molly  gathered  herself  together,  —  a  miserable 
little  effort, — shame  and  love  and  tears, — and 
obeyed.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  with  blonde  hair. 

"  Deserve  it  ?  "  said  Doctor  Zay,  in  a  changed 
manner,  as  soon  as  the  girl  was  gone.  "  Deserve 
it  ?  You  have  behaved  to  her  like  a  coward  and 
.a  sneak.  She  is  behaving  like  —  a  woman.  She 
loves  him,  I  suppose,"  added  the  doctor,  in  an  un 
dertone.  "  That  is  the  way  with  these  women. 
Now,  then,  Jim  Paisley  !  I  have  just  this  to  say 
to  you.  You  are  able  to  sit  up.  Let  me  see  you 
do  it." 

The  resuscitated  man  struggled  to  an  obtuse  an 
gle  against  the  pillows. 
10 


146  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  Very  good.  I  wish  you  could  stand  up,  but 
that  will  do.  I  want  you  to  marry  Molly.  I  will 
call  her  back." 

"  But,  Doctor  "  —  began  Jim. 

"No  shilly-shallying,"  returned  the  doctor 
sharply.  "  Not  a  word.  Let  me  see  it  done  be 
fore  I  leave  the  house.  I  sent  Henry  for  the  min 
ister  the  first  breath  you  drew,  —  out  there  on  the 
shore,  —  before  I  sent  for  the  brandy,  before  you 
gasped  twice.  He  is  sitting  at  the  gate  this  min 
ute,  with  a  borrowed  horse,  too,  that  he  's  in  a 
hurry  to  get  back  to  a  man  who  is  mowing.  Don't 
waste  any  more  of  our  time.  It's  too  precious  for 
you.  Come !  " 

"  But  Doctor,  how  can  I  be  married,  done  up  in 
blankets  like  a  mummy.  It 's  —  so  —  ridiculous  ! " 
pleaded  Jim.  "  I  'd  have  liked  my  best  close  on." 

"  Paisley !  "  said  the  doctor,  towering  and  su 
perb,  "  did  I  work  over  you  fourteen  minutes  after 
every  man  in  Sherman  would  have  given  you  up 
for  dead  ?  Fourteen  minutes  longer  than  is  laid 
down  by  Hering,  too,  if  I  remember,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Yorke. 

"  Well,  Doctor,  I  s'pose  you  did." 

"  Did  I  bring  back  the  soul  to  your  senseless, 
sinful  body,  after  it  had  gone  God  knows  where, 
but  where  you  '11  never  go  again  till  you  go  to 
stay?" 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  147 

"  That 's  a  fact,  Doctor.     Yes,  marm." 

"  I  've  got  some  rights  in  your  life,  have  I, 
Jim  ?  " 

"  Yes,  marm.  I  don't  deny  you  brought  me 
to." 

"  Do  you  suppose  you  were  worth  touching,  ex 
cept  that  you  had  it  in  your  miserable  power  to 
right  a  poor  wronged  girl?  Come  !  Do  you?  " 

"  No,  marm." 

"  If  you  don't  marry  Molly  before  I  leave  this 
house,  every  lumberman  in  Sherman  may  throw 
you  into  the  mill-pond,  — and  some  of  them  will. 
I  '11  stand  by  and  see  them  do  it.  I  won't  lift  a 
finger  for  you." 

"  You  're  hard  on  a  fellow,"  complained  Jim. 
"  I  hain't  said  I  would  n't.  I  only  said  I  'd  rather 
wait  and  get  my  best  close.  I  vum,  when  I  come 
to,  and  —  Good  Lord  !  did  you  see  her,  Doctor  ? 
I  hain't  done  right  by  her,  that 's  a  fact.  I  told 
her  so." 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Doctor  Zay,  softening. 
She  went  at  once  to  call  the  girl,  who  lay  crouched 
like  a  spaniel  outside  the  door,  upon  the  bare  en 
try  floor.  "  Come  here,  Molly,"  she  said,  with 
ineffable  gentleness.  "  Jim  wants  to  be  married." 

Molly  stood  still.  The  color  slowly  crept  over 
her  delicate  neck. 


148  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  He  hain't  asked  me  himself,"  she  said.  Jim 
held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  The  doctor  thought  I  was  n't  fit  to  ask  you, 
Molly.  She  ain't  far  out,  either." 

The  girl  advanced  slowly,  looking  at  him  search- 
ingly.  Then,  with  a  certain  dignity,  she  gave  the 
man  one  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  Very  well,  Doctor." 

The  minister  came,  talking  about  his  borrowed 
horse.  He  was  worried  and  hurried. 

"  Where  is  your  certificate  of  intention  to  mar 
ry?"  he  asked  shortly;  "we  require  five  days' 
notice  of  intention  in  our  State." 

"  The  marriage  will  be  legal,"  replied  Dr.  Zay, 
promptly.  "  I  've  had  occasion  to  look  into  that. 
Whatever  formalities  are  necessary,  I  will  attend 
to  myself.  I  will  pay  your  fine,  if  you  are  called 
to  account  for  this." 

"  It  is  a  large  fine,"  said  the  minister,  slowly. 

"  I  will  be  responsible  for  it,"  persisted  the  Doc 
tor.  "  I  must  see  the  thing  done  now.  Something 
might  go  wrong  with  the  case  yet.  The  man  is 
very  weak." 

The  old  minister  yielded  his  point  after  a  little 
feeble  protest ;  he  wanted  to  get  back  to  his  mow 
ing. 

Yorke  and  the  physician  witnessed  the  marriage. 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  149 

And  the  young  stepmother,  out  in  the  front  yard, 
gossiped  with  the  lumbermen  through  it  all. 

Doctor  Zay  took  her  patient  home  immediately 
when  the  painful  scene  was  over.  He  was  greatly 
exhausted.  She  sent  him  at  once  to  bed,  left  mi 
nute  orders  for  his  care,  and  went  off  on  her  after 
noon  rounds. 

In  the  evening  she  came  to  him  again.  She  sat 
some  time.  She  was  anxious,  gentle,  half  depre 
cating.  She  gave  her  professional  tenderness  a 
beautiful  freedom.  He  felt  her  sympathy  like  a 
sparkling  tonic.  She  atoned  for  what  she  had 
cost  him  by  a  divine  hour. 

She  did  not  mention  the  poor  girl.  But  Yorke 
thought  of  the  caryatid  lifting  marble  arms  to  hold 
the  Temple  "  high  above  our  heads." 


VIII. 

THE  patient  continued  for  several  days  clearly 
worse  for  the  episode  of  Molly  and  Jim.  The 
physician  was  penitently  assiduous  in  her  atten 
tions.  As  soon  as  he  was  better  they  cooled  off 
quietly,  but  so  obviously  that  Mrs.  Butterwell 
turned  her  soft  eyes,  not  without  sympathy,  upon 
her  invalid  lodger. 

"  She  's  like  a  candle,  —  knows  her  mould,  and 
gets  into  it,  and  no  fuss.  Some  folks  are  like  ice 
cream  ;  can't  freeze  without  churning.  Doctor  's 
always  just  so  with  patients.  I  wouldn't  notice 
her,  —  she  has  to  be ;  they  'd  lean  her  life  out." 

It  fact,  Yorke  found  himself  reduced  to  his  of 
fice-calls  again,  and  to  a  limited  allowance  of  those. 
He  now  took  occasional  meals  with  the  family,  and 
thus  sometimes  met  her  at  the  table.  She  was 
very  irregular.  The  office-bell  pealed,  or  Handy 
summoned  her  authoritatively ;  or  she  was  hours 
behind  time.  She  nodded  to  him  kindly  when 
she  came,  or  they  chatted  a  few  moments.  She 
glanced  at  him  with  her  direct,  brilliant,  healthy 
look.  He  watched  her  with  his  sad,  refined,  in- 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  151 

valid  eyes.  She  poured  her  abundant  personality 
into  half  a  hundred  empty  lives  a  day.  He  re 
ceived  into  his  vacant  hours  the  influences  of  the 
moment.  She  went ;  he  stayed.  He  suffered ; 
she  acted.  He  remembered ;  she  forgot. 

One  day  he  called  her,  as  he  sat  on  the  piazza. 
She  was  coming  from  the  dining-room,  after  a  late 
and  hurried  dinner.  She  had  her  hat  and  gloves 
in  her  hand.  "  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know 
that  this  is  August?" 

"It  is  the  3d,  — yes." 

"  I  thought  you  would  n't  know.  How  did  you 
happen  to  ?  " 

"  I  always  date  my  prescriptions." 

"  I  might  have  known  there  was  a  scientific 
reason.  For,  as  nearly  as  an  ignorant  layman  can 
observe,  the  seasons  slip  away  from  your  attention 
like  cured  patients.  One  is  like  another,  to  you. 
Doctor  Zay,  do  you  know  that  you  have  never 
asked  me  yet  to  call  on  you  ?  " 

"To  call  on —   Oh,  you  mean" —    She  stopped. 

"  As  a  person,  I  mean,  not  a  patient.  Is  there 
any  reason  why  I  should  n't?  " 

"  Why,  no !  "  she  said  cordially,  —  "  none  in  the 
world." 

"  Only  you  never  thought  of  it." 

"  That  is  all,"  quietly. 


152  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

«  All !  "  cried  Yorke. 

She  swept  upon  him  a  fine  look ;  half  rebuke, 
like  a  monarch's,  half  perplexity,  like  a  little  girl's. 
He  hastened  to  placate  this  expression. 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  me  come  ?  I  had 
rather  be  denied  than  endured." 

"  That  is  manly. ,  So  should  I.  Certainly,  I 
should  like  to  see  you.  Only  I  never  am  at  home. 
I  suppose  it  was  rude  not  to  ask  you  before.  I  am 
so  out  of  the  way  of  —  all  these  little  things." 

She  spoke  the  last  three  words  with  an  accent 
before  which  his  heart  shrank.  But  he  only 
said,  — 

"  May  I  come  —  to-night  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  lightly;  "any  time 
you  like,  after  office-hours  and  before  your  bed 
time." 

"  I  'm  coming,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  significant 
tone. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

He  rose  and  confronted  her.  He  leaned  upon 
his  crutch,  but  she  felt  that  the  man  was  waxing 
strong. 

"  I  'm  coming"  he  repeated  firmly. 

She  had  turned  to  go,  but  regarded  him  for  an 
instant  over  her  shoulder.  A  beautiful  mocking 
light  darted  from  her  lip  to  her  eye.  She  did  not 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  153 

say  a  word.  But  he  heard  every  nerve  in  the 
woman  defy  him.  It  was  like  the  challenge  before 
a  battle.  The  convalescing  man  welcomed  the 
signal  of  contest. 

He  went  that  evening,  "  after  office-hours  and 
before  bed  -  time,"  dutifully,  as  she  had  bidden. 
It  was  a  superb  evening,  and  he  lingered  a  moment 
outside  the  door  to  watch  the  western  colors  be 
hind  the  forest.  He  had  already  acquired  that 
half-plaintive  sympathy  with  the  setting  sun  which 
is  so  noticeable  a  feature  in  the  lives  of  invalids. 
Is  it  because  the  hour  marks  another  finished  pe 
riod  of  suffering,  or  that  it  promises  renewal  of 
life,  which  is  always  resurrection  of  hope  ? 

It  was  a  quiet  sunset  of  pale  chromes  and  vio 
lets,  sinking  gently  into  gray  below,  melting  to  the 
deep  blue  of  advancing  night  above.  The  long 
forest,  with  its  procession  of  pine  outlines,  cut  the 
horizon.  The  heavy  mists  of  the  Maine  evening 
rose  from  the  little  river  and  the  mill-ponds.  This 
fog  caught  fire,  and  the  village  seemed  to  stagger 
in  it.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Isaiah  Butterwell  were  pick 
ing  currants  together  in  the  garden,  stooping  to 
their  task  in  the  level  light ;  they  did  not  watch 
the  sunset.  Handy  was  watering  Old  Oak  at  the 
spring  in  the  pasture  behind  the  barn.  The  stage 
was  late,  and  the  two  worn  horses  struggled,  with 


154  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

hanging  heads,  up  the  lonely  street.  Two  or  three 
lumbermen  followed  the  stage,  singing.  They 
sang  a  chorus  which  ran,  — 

"  Thus  with  the  man,  thus  with  the  tree, 
Sharp  at  the  root  the  axe  shall  be." 

Mr.  Butterwell  called  out  to  the  driver  to  toss  him 
over  a  paper.  The  stage  crawled  on,  and  turned 
the  corner  to  the  post-office.  The  fire  fell  from 
the  mists,  the  deserted  road  grew  gray,  and  Yorke 
felt  damp  as  soon  as  the  color  dropped. 

The  solitude  of  the  scene  oppressed  him  at  that 
moment,  as  if  he  had  known  that  he  should  never 
have  power  to  separate  himself  from  it.  The  limit 
of  life  in  this  poor  place,  its  denial,  its  desolateness, 
came  to  his  consciousness  with  the  vividness  and 
remorselessness  of  personal  fate.  He  thought  of 
that  wealthy  nature,  that  glorious  vigor,  that  deli 
cate  youth,  impoverished  here.  He  thought  of  go 
ing  hack  to  Boston,  and  leaving  her.  He  rang  the 
office-bell  sharply,  and  entered  without  waiting 
for  it  to  be  answered. 

No  one  was  in  the  reception-room,  and  he  passed 
through.  The  office  was  empty.  All  the  doors 
were  open.  As  he  stood  hesitating,  she  came  from 
the  parlor  beyond.  She  stood  in  the  door-way, 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you  ?  "  she  said  graciously.     He  was 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  155 

confused  by  a  consciousness  of  change  in  her,  but 
could  not  have  told  what  it  was.  As  he  followed 
her  into  the  room,  he  perceived  that  this  impression 
came  from  her  dress.  She  wore  a  muslin  gown  of 
a  violet  color ;  it  was  finished  at  the  throat  and 
wrists  by  fluttering  satin  ribbons  and  lace  ;  it  was 
a  cool,  sheer  thing,  as  befitted  the  warm  night,  — 
a  parlor  dress,  sweeping  the  floor.  He  had  always 
seen  her  in  her  business  clothes. 

He  was  not  sure  at  first  that  he  liked  to  see  her 
in  any  other  way.  He  felt  a  vague  jealousy  of  her 
individuality,  on  which  this  dainty  feminine  gear 
seemed  to  encroach.  But  in  a  moment,  when  he 
had  accustomed  his  eye  to  the  transformation,  he 
acknowledged  that  he  would  not  have  missed  it 
for  the  world. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked,  in  her  out 
right  fashion ;  her  profession  had  cultivated  in 
her,  to  perhaps  an  extreme  limit,  what  was  proba 
bly  great  native  directness  of  manner. 

"  Excuse  me.  Was  I  staring  ?  I  have  never 
seen  you  in  a  — don't  you  call  them  trails?" 

She  blushed  a  little,  looking  over  her  shoulder 
down  at  the  wave  of  purple  color,  out  of  which 
she  seemed  to  rise,  as  if  she  floated  on  it. 

"  I  do  not  wear  such  things.  I  do  not  respect 
them,"  she  said,  with  a  latent  vexation  in  her 


156  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

voice.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  apologize  to  ideal 
womanhood  every  time  I  encumber  my  feet  and 
other  people's  in  this  way.  But  it  was  so  warm, 
and  this  is  the  coolest  thing  I, have.  I  had  been 
dusty  and  uncomfortable  all  day.  And  it  is  pretty, 
in  itself,  I  think;  don't  you?  " 

"I  shall  not — that  is  to  say  I  cannot  —  tell 
you  what  I  think,"  he  answered.  The  undisguised 
admiration  in  his  eyes  roamed  over  her  with  dar 
ing  leisure. 

It  was  characteristic  of  these  two  people  —  and 
to  which  the  more  creditable,  one  can  hardly  say 
—  that  it  no  more  occurred  to  the  young  man  that 
there  was  a  remote  touch  of  pardonable  feminine 
coquetry  in  the  coincidence  of  his  call  and  the  vio 
let  muslin,  than  it  did  to  the  lady  that  he  might 
think  so.  Doctor  Zay  knew  how  often  she  wore 
that  gown  on  warm  evenings,  shut  in  alone  in  her 
dark  little  parlor,  after  the  last  patient  was  gone, 
after  the  care  and  fever  of  the  long  day  were 
spent,  —  when  the  doctor  melted  into  the  woman. 
And  Yorke  was  beginning  to  know  Doctor  Zay. 

He  took  the  easy-chair  which  she  offered  him, 
quietly  observing  the  scene  upon  which  he  had 
fallen,  and  in  which  the  violet  muslin  was  only 
what  artists  would  call  the  "  high  light."  After 
his  hair-cloth  sofa  and  framed  certificate,  this 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  157 

young  lady's  parlor  affected  him  like  a  restored 
and  precious  painting.  He  felt  the  powerful  in 
fluence  of  the  cultivated  interior,  to  which  he 
yielded  with  that  composite  emotion,  half  home 
sickness,  half  instinct,  which  we  all  know,  and 
which,  like  a  magnet,  draws  back  the  exile  from 
what  we  are  pleased  to  call  "  the  world." 

Yorke,  as  he  sat  and  talked  of  little  things,  as 
similated  his  surroundings  gently  :  the  books,  the 
engravings,  few  but  fine,  the  bronze  Psyche,  the 
little  landscape  of  Gifford's,  magazines,  newspa 
pers,  reviews,  and  colors  that  he  had  not  seen  since 
he  left  home. 

While  she  busied  herself  in  drawing  the  long 
curtains  and  lighting  the  lamps,  he  noticed  the 
Chickering  upright  across  the  corner,  and  a  curious 
afghan,  knit  of  dull  harmonious  tints,  like  a  Per 
sian  rug.  There  were  flowers,  too.  The  lamps 
had  green  and  yellow  globes.  There  Avere  many 
pillows  in  the  room,  of  odd  shapes,  and  all  sorts  of 
hospitable  things  to  sit  on  ;  an  open  fire-place, 
filled  now  with  ferns  :  yet  nothing  seemed  to  be  a 
reproduction  of  a  fashionable  craze.  There  was  no 
incoherent  attempt  at  affecting  cracked  bricabrac, 
deteriorated  Japanese  art,  or  doubtful  colonial  fash 
ions.  One  did  not  even  think  of  Queen  Anne  or 
Louis  Quinze,  but  only  of  Doctor  Zay,  who  had  a 
pleasant  room  and  lived  there. 


158  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

It  affected  Yorke  strongly  to  meet  his  doctor 
here,  —  a  lady,  like  other  ladies,  in  a  shelter, 
among  little  lovely  things,  quiet  and  set  apart, 
protected  from  encroachments,  forgetful  of  care. 
He  was  glad  that  the  patients  were  never  allowed 
to  come  into  that  room.  He  felt  dizzy  with  his 
own  privilege. 

He  leaned  his  head  back  against  his  boldly  mod 
ern  but  proportionally  easy-chair,  and  watched 
her,  while  they  chatted  pleasantly.  They  talked  of 
Boston,  of  books,  of  people,  of  well  things.  Left 
to  herself,  he  noticed  that  she  avoided  all  patholog 
ical  subjects  with  a  rigor  which  in  itself  was  all 
that  reminded  him  of  their  existence.  She  made 
no  inquiries  about  the  state  of  his  prevailing  sen 
sations,  nor  alluded  in  any  way  to  his  relation  as  a 
patient  to  herself.  She  had  a  fine  tact  in  this, 
which  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  a  well  man 
again.  He  rested  in  her  dainty  vicinity,  the  quiet 
things  she  said,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  deli 
cacy  of  her  dress,  in  herself.  He  forgot  for  one  de 
licious  hour  the  real  and  rugged  world  in  which 
she  lived.  Or  rather,  perhaps,  if  he  analyzed  his 
feeling,  he  had  a  vague  sense  of  mastery,  as  stimu 
lating  as  it  was  unprecedented,  as  if  he  himself 
were  the  agent,  not  the  subject,  of  a  new  experi 
ence,  in  which  he  drew  her  from  a  consecration  to 
a  dream. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  159 

He  asked  her  to  play  to  him. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  you  are  a  Bostonian." 

"  But  not  a  critic." 

"  Impossible  !  You  approve  the  Handel  and 
Haydn,  and  patronize  the  Symphony.  You  do 
your  duty  by  the  prevailing  artists  ;  hold  them  at 
arm's  length  as  I  do  my  last  new  babies,  with 
about  the  same  complacency  in  their  existence,  as 
if  the  Creator  had  an  obligation  to  you  for  the 
fact.  You  are  like  the  man  who  declined  to  be  a 
vegetarian  on  the  ground  that  pdte  defoie  gras 
was  good  enough  for  him.  I  had  a  patient  once 
who  abandoned  smoking  because  his  taste  had  de 
veloped  so  fastidious  a  quality  that  he  could  find 
no  tobacco  fine  enough  for  him." 

"I  am  still  a  crude  smoker.  Play  to  me; 
please  !  " 

"I  know  two  tunes:  one  is  China,  and  the 
other  is  n't.  Which  will  you  have  ?  " 

"  The  other  one.     Play  to  me  !  " 

"  It   is   a  Scotch   song.     Do   you   like   Scotch 


"  Do  you  sing  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  can  play  you  the  accom 
paniment." 

He  made  a  little  movement  of  impatience.  He 
was  by  nature  of  a  restless,  not  to  say  an  imperi- 


160  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

ous  temper  which  his  illness  (or  perhaps  it  would 
be  more  precise  to  say,  his  physician)  had  sub 
dued  rather  than  excited. 

Her  ready  merriment  came  to  her  eyes. 
/'"You  cannot    make    me  believe,"  he  insisted, 
"  that  you  are  not  musical.     Physicians  are." 

"  That  is  true  enough,"  she  answered,  quickly 
warming  to  the  subject.  "  Science  is  harmony. 
Music  ancl  science  are  twins.  Music  is  the  femi 
nine,  though,  I  think." 

'"  It  is  a  fine  marriage.  Oh,  you  call  them 
twins,  though." 

"  You  are  not  so  far  out  of  the  way.  There  is 
nn  element  of  twinship  in  all  absolute  marriage." 
This  was  said  with  her  scientific  expression,  as  if 
she  were  dissecting  a  radial  artery. 

"  How  many  '  absolute  '  marriages  have  you 
known  ? "  asked  Yorke,  as  nearly  as  possible  in 
the  same  tone. 

"  Just  three,"  said  Dr.  Doctor  Zay. 

"  In  all  your  experience  ?  Only  three  that 
would  —  that  you  would  have  been  satisfied 
with  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  what  would  satisfy  one's 
self,"  she  said,  freezing  swiftly  and  slightly,  like 
thin  November  ice.  "It  is  a  matter  of  psycholog 
ical  investigation." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  161 

"  What    a   horrible    advantage    over    mankind 

o 

your -profession  gives  !  "  said  Yorke,  between   his 
teeth.     She  nodded  gravely. 

"  It  is  unmatched,  I  believe.     Even  the  clergy  : 
have  a  poor  one  beside  us.     We  stand  at  an  eter 
nal    confessional,  in  which  the   chance    of    moral  \ 
escape  or  evasion  is  reduced  to  a  minimum.     It  is 
holding  human  hearts  to  count  their  beats.   When 
you  add  the  control  of  life  and  death,  you  have  a 
position  unique  in  human  relations.     When  I  be 
gan,  it   seemed    to    me    like  God's.     My  mother 
used  to  "  —     She  stopped. 

"  What  did  your  mother  do  ?  "  asked  Yorke, 
gently. 

"  She  encouraged  that  feeling,"  said  Doctor 
Zay.  "  She  said  no  one  was  fit  to  enter  the  pro 
fession  who  did  not  have  it." 

"I  wish  I  had  known  your  mother,"  he  ven 
tured. 

"  You  would  have  loved  her,"  said  the  doctor, 
simply. 

"And  I  wish  you  knew  mine!  "  continued  the 
young  man,  fatuously. 

"  She  would  not  be  interested  in  me,"  returned 
Doctor  Zay,  coldly.     It  was  good,  honest  Decem 
ber  ice  now.     He  could  have  skated  on  the  bar- 
11 


102  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

rier  she  had  thrust  between  them,  he  neither  knew 
how  nor  why. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  her" — he  began.  At 
this  moment  the  office-bell  rang.  Handy  answered 
it,  and  knocked  at  the  parlor  door  to  announce 
(with  evident  pleasure)  the  presence  of  a  patient 
who  "  was  in  an  Ananias  V  Sapphiry  hurry. 
Guessed  it  was  somebody  dyin'  or  smushed." 

The  doctor  rose  leisurely,  too  used  to  these  in 
terruptions  to  expend  nerve  force  on  little  haste 
or  premature  excitement,  and  went  into  the  re 
ception-room.  She  did  not  excuse  herself  to  her 
visitor.  She  left  the  doors  ajar,  and  he  could  hear 
her  hearty  voice  :  — 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Beckwith  !     What  now  ?  " 

"  Wall,"  replied  the  man's  voice  that  Yorke 
had  heard  on  his  first  office-call,  "  Puella,  you  see, 
she  's  bad.  She  's  took  screechin'  bad  ag'in,  and 
don't  give  none  of  us  no  peace.  She  wants  you 
right  away.  She  made  me  tackle  up  so  's  to  bring 
you  myself.  I  told  her,  says  I,  't  was  a  kind  of 
shame  !  —  you  'd  be  all  beat  out,  this  time  o'  night. 
But,  Doctor,"  plaintively,  "it  ain't  no  use  to  tell 
Puella  things." 

"  Anything  new,  Mr.  Beckwith  ?  Any  serious 
change  in  the  case  ?  What  are  the  symptoms  ?  " 

"Wall,"  said  Mr.  Beckwith   slowly,  "I  can't 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  163 

say 's  it 's  so  very  noo.  It 's  that  same  crookedness 
in  her  mind.  She  suffers  a  sight,"  solemnly, 
"from  crookedness  in  the  mind,  Doctor." 

"  I  '11  send  her  something,"  said  the  doctor 
kindly.  "  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  for  me  to 
go  to-night.  There  !  One  powder  dry  on  the 
tongue,  if  you  please,  every  two  hours.  I  will 
look  in  to-morrow." 

"  I  told  her  you  would  n't  come,"  said  Mr.  Beck- 
with,  triumphantly.  "  And  what  's  more,  I  said, 
says  I,  Puella,  I  would  n't  if  I  was  her,  says  I. 
But  says  she,  You  don't  none  of  you  know  what 
it  is  to  have  crookedness  into  your  mind." 

Silence  succeeded.  The  doctor  returned,  clos 
ing  the  doors  as  she  came.  She  made  no  com 
ments  on  the  interruption.  She  drifted  into  the 
quiet  room,  past  the  green  and  golden  lamps,  in 
her  violet  dress,  and  resumed  her  chair  in  silence. 
Yorke  looked  at  her  without  speaking. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 
There  was  a  dash  of  something  which  he  could 
almost  have  dared  to  call  friendly  freedom  in  the 
tone  of  the  question. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  you  harmonize  with  your 
environment." 

"  That  would  be  the  acquisition,  as  it  is  the  as 
piration,  of  one's  life-time.  The  compliment  is 
too  large  for  the  occasion." 


164  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

For  answer,  he  glanced  about  the  room  and 
back  at  herself.  She  smiled,  not  without  a  touch 
of  scorn,  or  it  might  have  been  of  bitterness. 

"  But  then,"  he  continued  dreamily,  "you  are 
of  course  an  exception,  not  a  representative,  among 
women  who  adopt  your  vocation." 

"  You  only  exhibit  your  ignorance  by  such  a 
remark,"  said  the  young  lady  quietly.  "  Among 
the  thousand  of  us  now  practicing  medicine  in 
this  country,  there  are  many  more  successful  than 
I,  and  abroad  there  is  some  superb  work  done.  I 
should  like  to  give  you  the  figures  some  time. 
They  are  very  interesting.  But  I  won't  bore  you 
now.  It  would  be  like  putting  sermons  in  a 
novel." 

"What  is  the  proportion  of  ladies  in  the  profes 
sion  ?  "  asked  Yorke,  with  a  slight  shrug. 

"  What  is  the  proportion  of  gentlemen  in  the 
profession  ?  " 

"  Except  that  I  really  know  nothing  about  it,  I 
should  suppose  it  is  larger." 

"  It  probably  is  a  little.  Until  recently  it  needed 
force  rather  than  fineness  to  bring  a  woman  to  the 
surface  of  a  great  progressive  movement.  We  are 
coming  to  a  point  where  both  are  to  be  absolutely 
necessary  to  success  in  the  art  of  healing.  A  union 
of  these  qualities  will  be  demanded  of  women,  bo- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  165 

cause  they  are  women,  such  as  has  never  been  ex 
pected  of  men,  or  perhaps  been  possible  to  them. 
We  have  a  complex  task  before  us." 

"  It  seems  a  dreary  one  to  me,"  said  Yorke, 
rather  sadly.  "  And  yet  you  find  it  "  — 

"  Bright !  "  she  said  quickly ;  "  bright,  bright !  " 
Her  earnest  face  fired. 

"  You  really  seem  happy,"  he  urged. 

"  I  am  happy  !  "  she  cried,  in  her  resonant,  joy 
ous  tone. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  say  as  much,  if  I  had  done 
as  much  ?  "  queried  the  sick  man. 

Her  whole  expression  changed  instantly.  Both 
felt  what  neither  said,  that  they  had  approached 
difficult  and  delicate  ground. 

"  I  do  not  take  as  dark  a  view  of  your  case  as 
you  do,"  she  said. 

"  In  other  words,  I  am  not  lost  to  your  respect, 
because  I  have  not  become  an  eminent  jurist  at  the 
age  of  —  I  am  only  twenty-eight,  after  all,"  he 
added. 

"  I  am  a  year  older  than  that,"  she  smiled.  "  I 
ought  to  have  done  more.  What  is  the  trouble, 
Mr.  Yorke  ?  Don't  you  get  any  clients  ?  "  She 
took  unconsciously  the  professional  tone  she  had 
so  long  assumed  to  him,  as  if  she  had  asked, 
"  Does  n't  your  dinner  agree  with  you  ?  " 


166  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  I  had  one  divorce  case  last  winter ;  I  lost  it." 

"  You  resent  my  asking  questions.  You  ought 
not  to." 

"  I  feel  it.     I  do  not  resent  it." 

"  That  is  kind  in  you,  and  discriminating.  You 
silence  me." 

"  No,  go  on.  Say  what  you  think  of  me.  Tell 
me,  —  I  can  stand  it.  What  a  consummate  don 
key  a  man  of  my  sort  must  seem  to  a  woman  of 
yours  !  And  yet  I  'm  not  a  donkey ;  I  am  really 
a  very  good  sort  of  fellow." 

"  You  are  rudimentary,"  said  the  doctor,  with 
an  inscrutable  look. 

"  Hum  —  um  —  urn." 

"  Honestly,  Mr.  Yorke,  my  diagnosis  of  you  is 
different  from  —  It  is  my  own,  at  any  rate,  be  it 
worth  little  or  much." 

"  You  have  had  some  chance  to  form  one,  I  '11 
admit,"  said  Yorke.  " Let  me  make  a  guess  at  it: 
Inherited  inertia.  Succumbed  to  his  environment. 
Corrosion  of  Beacon  Street  upon  what  might,  in  a 
machine-shop,  for  instance,  or  a  factory,  have  been 
called  his  brain.  Native  indolence,  developed  by 
acquired  habit.  Hopeless  correlation  of  predes 
tined  forces.  Atrophied  ambition.  Paralyzed  as 
piration.  No  struggle  for  existence.  Destitute  of 
scientific  basis.  Reductio  ad  absurdum,  —  Labo- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  167 

rare  est  orare,  —  Facilis  descensus.  No  correspond 
ent  in  the  Materia  Medica.  Hahnemann  knew 
not  of  him.  (JHe  was  mobbed  for  a  great  cause.) 
The  Organon  foresaw  him  not.  There  is  no  di- 

O 

vine  remedy  for  him.  Give  him  sac.  lac.  powders, 
and  send  him  back  to  Beacon  Street.  By  the  way, 
Doctor,  did  you  ever  give  me  a  sugar  powder?" 

"  Once." 

"  When  was  that  ?  I  '11  know,  or  I  '11  never  for 
give  you." 

"  The  day  you  disobeyed  me  about  going  out 
doors,  and  caused  me  an  unnecessary  call." 

"  On  your  honor,  is  that  the  only  time  ?" 

"  By  my  diploma !  —  the  only  time." 

"  You  did  not  say  whether  I  had  hit  the  diagno 
sis,  Doctor  Zay." 

She  did  not  answer  him  at  once,  and  when  she 
spoke  he  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  it  was  with 
her  guarded  look. 

"I  do  not  make  it  a  case  of  paralysis,  exactly. 
I  should  rather  call  it  one  of  hypercesthesia." 

"  Hyperses  —  that  was  what  was  the  matter 
with  me  when  I  could  n't  let  Mrs.  Butter  well  shut 
a  door,  or  drop  a  thimble ;  when  the  horses  kept 
me  awake,  stamping  in  the  barn.  You  mean  that 
you  do  me  the  honor  to  infer  that  I  have  ideals, 
despite  my  failure  to  give  an  inquiring  world  evi- 


168  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

dence  of  the  fact,  and  that  (if  I  do  not  strain  your 
goodness)  the  idealizing  fibre  is  not  without  super 
fluous  sensitiveness  ?  " 

"Superfluous,  and  therefore  injurious,  sensitive 
ness.  You  experience  a  certain  scorn  of  the  best 
into  which-  you  know  yourself  capable  of  resulting. 
You  cherished  this  scorn,  at  one  time,  as  a  silent 
proof  of  superiority  of  nature,  patent  only  to  your 
self,  and  the  more  precious,  like  family  lace  or 
jewels  worn  out  of  sight.  You  were  met  at  the 
outset  of  life  by  the  conviction  that  you  were 
without  extraordinary  gifts,  and  it  struck  you  as 
original  to  snub  the  ordinary  ones,  as  if  it  were 
their  fault.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  even  origi 
nal  ;  it  certainly  was  not  admirable.  But  you 
have  outgrown  that.  I  recognize  now  a  genuine 
modesty  at  root  of  your  inertia.  Your  self-esti 
mate  is  calculably  less  than  that  of  almost  any 
other  Boston  man  I  ever  met.  I  prognosticate 
that  the  next  phase  of  experience  will  be  a  health 
ier  and  haughtier  one.  I  think  you  capable  of 
service."  The  young  lady  uttered  these  sentences 
slowly,  with  palliative  pauses  between  them ;  she 
had  an  absorbed  and  studious  look. 

"  I  always  thought  I  might  have  made  a  good 
head-waiter,"  said  the  young  man  grimly. 

"  Take  me  as  you  please,"  persisted  the  doctor. 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  169 

"  I  have  paid  you  a  compliment ;  my  first  —  and 
last.  Cut  yourself  with  it,  if  you  want  to.  It 
would  be  malpractice,  but  I  am  not  the  surgeon." 

Yorke  made  no  reply.  He  sat  and  watched  her, 
thinking  that  he  would  not  have  borne  from  any 
other  woman  in  the  world  what  came  like  a  fine 
intoxication  from  her  ;  he  drank  her  noble  severity 
like  gleaming  wine. 

"  You  are  not  a  great  man,"  she  urged  gently, 
as  if  she  had  to  say,  "  You  have  a  spinal  injury," 
"  but  you  have  uncommon  qualities,  —  perhaps  I 
should  say  quality ;  you  have  hardly  taken  the 
trouble,  as  yet,  to  indicate  what  your  qualities 
are.  You  could  be  successful  if  you  chose.  The 
difficulty  has  been  that  you  have  not  respected 
what  we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  success." 

"  Frankly,  no ;  it  has  never  seemed  worth 
while." 

"  The  Christians  have  a  phrase,"  said  Doctor 
Zay,  "which  expresses  the  deficiency  in  most  of 
our  standards.  They  talk  of  consecration.  It 
means  something,  I  find." 

"  Are  you  a  Christian  ?  "  asked  Yorke. 

"  I  do  not  know  — yet,"  she  answered,  gravely. 

"  Now,  I  have  always  thought  I  was,"  he  said, 
smiling  sadly. 

"  Are  you?  "     She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 


170  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  At  least  I  was  confirmed  once,  to  please  my 
mother.  It  may  belong  to  that  pervasive  weak 
ness  of  nature,  which  you  classify  so  indulgently 
as  sensitiveness,  that  I  never  have  grown  away  as 
far  from  all  that  as  many  fellows  I  know.  There, 
now,  is  an  ideal !  Where  in  history  or  philosophy 
can  it  be  mated  ?  Faith  is  beauty.  I  should  like 
to  hold  on  to  my  faith,  if  I  can,  —  if  I  had  no 
other  reason,  just  as  I  should  wish  to  keep  my 
paintings  or  bronzes.  But  I  know  it  is  harder  for 
a  camel  to  go  through  the  knee  of  an  idol,  as  the 
little  boy  said,  than  for  a  student  of  science  to  en 
ter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Are  you  one  of  the 
two  atheists,  in  the  historic  three  doctors  ?  " 

"  God  forbid !  "  she  cried.  "  I  am  a  seeker,  still. 
That  is  all  I  mean  to  say.  And  I  know  I  must 
seem  "  —  She  paused,  stricken  by  an  unprece 
dented  and  beautiful  blushing  embarrassment. 

"  What  must  you  seem  ?  " 

"  It  was  nothing,  —  a  foolish  speech.  It  is  time 
for  you  to  go  home,  Mr.  Yorke,  and  go  to  bed." 

"  What  must  it  make  you  seem  ?  I  will  go 
when  I  know.  Tell  me,  —  you  shall !  Indulge 
me,  please."  He  limped  over  towards  her  ;  his 
words  fell  over  each  other ;  his  figure  towered 
above  her. 

She  gave  one  glance  at  his  agitated  face,  and 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  171 

collected  herself  by  a  movement  swift  and  secre 
tive  as  the  opening  of  a  water-lily. 

"I  only  meant  to  say  that  a  woman  usually  — 
naturally,  perhaps  —  is  the  guide  in  matters  of 
belief.  Spiritual  superiority  belongs  to  her  histor 
ically,  and  prophetically  too,  I  do  not  dispute.  It 
occurred  to  me,  at  that  moment,  how  it  must  strike 
a  man,  if  she  were  below  him  on  that  basis;  if 
she  had  no  power  to  heighten  or  deepen  his  ideal, 
—  that  was  all.  Good-night,  Mr.  Yorke.  If  you 
don't  sleep,  take  that  powder  marked  '  Cham.  5 
m.'  Now  go  !  " 

"You  heighten  and  deepen  every  other  ideal  I 
have,"  said  the  young  man,  solemnly.  "You  can 
not  fail  me  there.  It  will  not  be  possible  to  you." 

His  agitation  had  urged  itself  upon  her  now, 
against  her  will;  he  was  half  shocked,  half  trans 
ported,  to  see  that  a  slow  pallor  advanced  like  a 
spirit  towards  him,  over  her  resolute  face.  He 
watched  it  with  a  kind  of  awe,  and  made  a  gesture 
with  one  of  his  thin  hands,  as  if  to  check  an  invis 
ible  presence  which  he  was  not  strong  enough  to 
meet.  It  was  the  movement  of  a  sick  man  whose 
physical  strength  was  spent  by  emotion.  The 
physician  perceived  this  instantly. 

"  There  is  the  office-bell,"  she  said,  in  her  busi 
ness  tone.  "  I  will  answer  it  as  I  help  you  out." 


172  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

He  made  no  reply,  and  they  left  the  parlor  in 
uneasy  silence.  He  had  tried  to  come  on  one 
crutch  that  night ;  now,  weakened  with  excite 
ment,  he  made  bad  work  of  the  experiment. 

"  Put  your  hand  on  my  shoulder,"  ordered  Doc 
tor  Zay. 

"You  are  not  tall  enough,"  he  objected. 

"  I  am  strong  enough,"  she  insisted. 

He  obeyed  her,  and  thus  came  limping  to  the 
front  door  between  the  lady  and  the  crutch.  The 
patient  who  had  rung  the  office-bell  stood  in  the 
doorway.  It  was  a  man.  It  was  a  gentleman.  It 
was  a  stranger.  At  sight  of  him  Doctor  Zay  col 
ored  with  impulsive  pleasure.  She  said :  — 

"  Why,  Doctor  !  " 

The  stranger  answered  :  — 

*'  Good-evening,  Doctor." 

Yorke  found  this  dialogue  monotonous,  and  re 
moved  his  hand  from  the  violet  muslin  shoulder. 

"Walk  in,"  said  the  lady,  turning  heartily  to 
her  guest.  "  Go  right  through  into  the  parlor.  I 
will'  be  with  you  in  a  moment." 

The  stranger,  bowing  slightly  to  Yorke,  stepped 
in  and  passed  them.  By  the  sharp  light  of  the 
kerosene  entry  lamp  Yorke  perceived  a  man  of 
years  and  dignity ;  in  fact,  a  person  of  distin 
guished  appearance. 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  173 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you  to  go  any  farther  with 
me,"  said  Doctor  Zay's  patient,  stiffly. 

"  Nonsense  !  " 

The  soft,  warm  shoulder  presented  itself  with  a 
beautiful  —  it  seemed  to  Yorke  a  terrible  —  un 
consciousness,  leaning  towards  him  like  a  violet 
indeed. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  roughly  ;  "  I  don't  want  it. 
It  won't  help  me.  Don't  you  understand  a  man 
better  than  that  ?  " 

As  soon  as  the  words  were  uttered,  he  would 
have  given,  let  us  say,  his  sound  ankle  to  recall 
them.  She  shrank  all  over,  as  if,  indeed,  he  had 
stepped  on  a  flower,  and,  gathering  herself  with  a 
grave  majesty,  swept  away  from  him. 


IX. 

YOEKE  limped  back  to  his  room,  and  sank  into 
the  first  chair  that  presented  itself.  It  happened 
to  be  the  high  rocker,  and  he  put  his  head  back, 
and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  got 
his  ankle  across  another  chair,  and  for  a  few  mo 
ments  occupied  himself  in  a  savage  longing  for 
a  smoke.  His  physician  had  forbidden  him  his 
cigars,  pending  the  presence  of  certain  spinal 
symptoms  which  she  was  pleased  to  consider  of 
importance  to  her  therapeutic  whims.  A  good 
square  disobedience  would  have  relieved  him.  He 
would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  that  the 
odor  of  the  tobacco  should  steal  around  through 
her  parlor  windows,  while  she  sat  there  in  that 
trailed  gown  making  herself  lovely  to  that  fellow. 
Was  it  possible  she  knew  Tie  was  coming  when 
she  put  the  thing  on  ?  ... 

Yorke  found  himself  engulfed  in  a  chasm  of  feel 
ing,  across  which,  like  a  bridge  whereon  he  had 
missed  his  footing,  ran  one  slender  thought :  — 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  home  three  weeks  ago." 

It  was  quarter  past  nine  when  she  sent  him  to 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  175 

his  room.  He  sat  in  the  big  rocker,  in  the  dark, 
without  moving,  till  ten.  No  sound  had  come 
from  the  doctor's  side  of  the  house.  Acting  upon 
a  sudden  impulse,  of  which  he  was  half  ashamed, 
half  defensive,  and  which  he  owned  himself  wholly 
disinclined  to  resist,  he  groped  for  his  crutches  and 
got  out  upon  the  piazza,  where  he  could  see  the 
light  from  her  windows  making  a  great  radiance 
upon  the  acacia-tree,  and  showing  the  outlines  of 
the  short,  wet  grass.  A  honeysuckle  clambered 
over  the  nearest  window.  When  the  curtain  drifted 
in  the  warm  wind,  the  long-necked  flowers  seemed 
to  look  in.  The  subdued  sound  of  voices  came  to 
his  ear.  He  went  back,  and  got  upon  the  lounge. 
As  he  lay  there,  the  lumbermen  returned,  sing- 

ing>  — 

"  Thus  with  the  man,  thus  with  the  tree, 
Sharp  at  the  root  the  axe  must  be." 

Mrs.  Butterwell  came  in  to  say  good-night.  She 
held  a  candle,  which  made  fickle  revelations  of  her 
black  silk  dress  and  sallow  cheeks.  She  expressed 
surprise  at  finding  her  lodger  in  the  dark,  and 
lighted  his  Japanese  lantern  assiduously.  She 
thought  Mr.  Yorke  had  been  calling  on  the  doctor. 

"  She  sent  me  to  bed,"  said  Yorke.  "  She  has 
another  fellow  there." 

"They  will  come  at  all  hours,"  replied  Mrs. 
Butterwell,  serenely.  "  More  blame  to  'em  !  " 


176  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Who  will  come  at  all  hours?  "  gasped  Yorke. 

"Why,  patients,  of  course.     Who  else?  " 

"  This  is  n't  a  patient.     This  is  a  gentleman." 

"  I  want  to  know !  "  said  Mrs.  Butterwell,  put 
ting  down  the  light. 

"And  so  do  I,"  said  Yorke,  grimly. 

"  A  tall,  dark-complected  gentleman  ?  Wears 
a  crush  felt  hat  and  gray  gloves,  —  a  beautiful 
fit?" 

"  I  did  n't  notice  his  gloves,0  savagely. 

"  A  handsome  man,  was  n't  he  ?  "  pursued  Mrs. 
Butterwell,  cruelly.  "Splendid  figure  and  great 
blue  eyes  "  — 

"  How  should  I  know  about  his  eyes  ?  "  groaned 
Yorke. 

"  Oh,  it  must  be  he,"  returned  Mrs.  Butterwell, 
placidly.  "  I  wonder  I  did  n't  see  him  in  the  stage. 
I  always  mean  to  look  in  the  stage.  May  be  he 
drove,  —  he  's  apt  to." 

Yorke  made  no  answer.  Every  word  of  Mrs. 
Butterwell's  caused  an  acute  pain  in  his  left  tem 
ple,  like  the  nail  in  the  brain  of  Sisera ;  he  put  up 
his  hand  to  his  head. 

"  His  name  is  Penhallow,"  hammered  Mrs.  But 
terwell,  —  "  Doctor  Penhallow,  of  Bangor.  He  is 
a  famous  surgeon,  —  very  famous.  He  sets  the 
world  by  her." 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  177 

"  It  can't  be  —  it  is  n't  the  fellow  she  telegraphed 
to  about  my  case,  at  the  beginning  ?  "  cried  Yorke. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  Doctor  did  n't  mention  it  to 
me.  Doctor  never  talks  about  her  cases.  She  ad 
mires  Doctor  Penhallow  above  all.  He  was  her 
preceptor.  He  's  old  enough  to  be  —  well,  it 
would  be  a  young  sort  of  father  ;  but  he  's  well 
along  ;  he  could  n't  be  so  famous  if  he  was  n't ; 
nor  she  would  n't  feel  that  kind  of  feeling  for 
him,  —  that  looking  up.  He  's  the  only  man  I 
ever  saw  Doctor  look  up  to.  She  ain't  like  the 
rest  of  us  ;  we  wear  our  upper  lids  short  with  it. 
I  declare  !  It  seems  to  me  in  course  of  genera 
tions  women  would  n't  have  had  any  eyelids ; 
they  'd  be  what  you  call  nowadays  selected  away, 
by  worshipin'  men-folks,  if  Providence  had  n't 
thrown  in  such  lots  of  little  men,  —  mites  and  dots 
of  souls,  too  short  for  the  biggest  fool  alive  to  call 
the  tallest.  Then,  half  the  time,  she  gets  on  her 
knees  to  him  to  make  out  the  difference.  Oh,  I  've 
seen  'em  !  Down  on  their  knees,  and  stay  there 
to  make  him  think  he  's  as  big  as  he  wants  to  be, 
and  pacify  him.  Then  another  thing,"  added  Mrs. 
Butterwell,  gently,  "is  babies.  You've  got  to 
look  down  to  your  babies,  and  that  keeps  the  bal 
ance  something  like  even.  Providence  knew  what 
he  was  up  to  when  he  made  women,  though  I 
12 


178  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

must  say  it  looks  sometimes  as  if  he  'd  made  an 
awful  botch  of  it." 

"  Is  he  married  ?  "  asked  Yorke. 

"  Who?  Oh,  Doctor  Penhallow  ?  (I  was  think 
ing  about  Providence.)  No.  He  's  an  old  bach," 
said  Mrs.  Butterwell  in  a  mysterious  manner,  "  and 
only  one  sister,  and  she  just  married  and  gone 
to  Surinam  to  live.  It  seems  to  make  it  such  a 
useful  place  ;  I  never  felt  as  if  anybody  lived  there 
before.  He  used  to  have  to  have  her  home  in 
Bangor  till  a  gracious  mercy  removed  her,  for  she 
was  squint-eyed  and  had  spells.  He  was  a  friend 
of  her  father's,  too." 

"  Whose  father's  ?  "  cried  Yorke,  desperately. 

"  Why,  Doctor's  father's,  —  Doctor  Zay's  fa 
ther's.  Old  Doctor  Lloyd  and  Doctor  Penhallow 
were  friends,  the  dearest  kind ;  he  was  his  pre 
ceptor,  too,  and  Doctor  "  — 

"  We  are  getting  our  pronouns,  not  to  say  our 
physicians,  dreadfully  mixed,"  interrupted  the 
young  man  wearily.  "  And  I  suppose  the  lady 
has  a  right  to  her  admirers,  whether  they  meet 
our  views  or  not.  There  really  is  nothing  extraor 
dinary  about  it,  except  the  fact  that  it  should 
never  have  occurred  to  me  that  she  could  have 
them,  in  this  wilderness." 

"Well,  there  !  I  should  like  to  know  why  not  I  " 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  179 

Mrs.  Buttervvell  fired  at  once.  "  You  don't  sup 
pose  a  woman  ain't  a  woman  because  she 's  a  doc 
tor,  do  you  ?  There  was  a  fellow  here  last  sum 
mer,  —  a  family  of  summer  folks  at  the  Sherman 
Hotel,  three  brothers :  one  was  a  minister,  and  one 
was  an  editor  of  something,  —  I  forget  what,  but 
he  was  n't  a  widower,  that  I  'm  sure  of,  —  and  one 
had  a  patent  on  mouse-traps.  I  can't  say  much  for 
the  minister,  for  he  preached  on  woman's  sphere 
in  the  Baptist  church,  —  may  the  Lord  forgive 
him,  if  he  ever  heard  the  sermon,  which*.  I  don't 
believe  He  did,  —  and  the  mouse-trap  was  en 
gaged,  besides  having  his  froHt  teeth  out,  and  com 
ing  down  here  to  wait  till  he  shrank  for  a  new  set. 
But  that  poor  little  editor,  Mr.  Yorke,  I  wish  you 
could  have  made  his  acquaintance.  The  table-girl 
at  the  Sherman  House  told  my  girl  he  'd  lost  his 
appetite  to  that  pass  he  would  n't  eat  a  thing  but 
shoo-fly  potatoes.  Think,"  added  Mrs.  Butter- 
well,  with  a  gravity  which  deepened  to  solemnity, 
"  of  supporting  an  honorable  and  unrequited  affec 
tion  on  shoo-fly  potatoes  !  " 

"I  did  not  know,"  observed  Yorke,  acutely  con 
scious  of  the  indiscretion  of  his  remark,  "  that 
physicians  —  men  physicians  —  were  apt  to  be  ap 
preciative  of  the  lady  members  of  the  profession 
in  any  way,  least  of  all  in  that.  Many  of  these 


180  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

facts  in  social  progress,  you  see,  are  novel  to  me. 
I  am  very  dull  about  them." 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  "  objected  Mrs.  Butterwell. 
"  I  must  say  I  think  you  are.  For  my  part,  I  can't 
conceive  of  anything  more  natural.  When  you 
consider  the  convenience  of  taking  each  other's 
overflow  practice,  and  consulting  together  when 
folks  die,  and  the  sitting  down  of  an  evening  to 
talk  over  operations ;  and  then  one  boy  would  do 
for  both  sets  of  horses.  And  when  you  think  of 
having  a  woman  like  Doctor  to  turn  to,  sharin'  the 
biggest  cares  and  joys  a  man  has  got,  not  lean  in' 
like  a  water-soaked  log  against  him  when  he  feels 
slim  as  a  pussy-willow  himself,  poor  fellow,  but 
claspin'  hands  as  steady  as  a  statue  to  help  him 
on,  —  and  that  hair  of  hers,  and  her  eyes,  for  all 
her  learning!  But  there,  Mr.  Yorke !  I've 
talked  you  dead  as  East  Sherman.  I  '11  fix  your 
blinds  for  you  and  put  in  the  pegs,  and  get  your 
milk,  and  go.  Don't  you  lie  awake  listening  for 
him.  He  won't  go  till  half  past  eleven.  He  never 
does.  He  ain't  able  to  get  over  very  often,  for  his 
business  is  tremendous,  and  he  's  sent  for  all  over 
the  State,  consultin'.  He's  famous  enough  for 
her,  if  that  is  all,"  she  added,  by  way  of  final 
consolation. 

Mrs.  Butterwell's  prophecy  proved  so  far  cor- 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  181 

rect  that  at  quarter  of  eleven  the  hospitable  light 
still  shone  from  Doctor  Zay's  parlor  upon  the  aca 
cia  leaves  and  clovers,  and  the  slender-throated 
honey-suckles,  curious  and  dumb.  It  was  with  an 
emotion  of  exultance,  for  which  he  blamed  and 
shamed  himself  with  bitter  helplessness,  that 
Yorke  heard,  at  ten  minutes  before  eleven,  the  of 
fice-bell  struck  by  what  he  knew  was  the  imperious 
hand  of  a  messenger  in  mortal  need.  He  heard 
Doctor  Zay  come  out  quickly  to  the  wagon  which 
had  brought  the  order.  She  did  not  wait  for  her 
own  horse  to  be  harnessed,  but  was  driven  rapidly 
and  anxiously  away.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
heard  Jim  Paisley's  voice,  and  that  Jim  said  some 
thing  about  Molly.  Yorke  was  sorry  for  Molly, 
but  he  was  not  sorry  for  Doctor  Penhallow,  whose 
distinguished  footsteps  echoed  down  the  lonely 
street,  on  their  way  back  to  the  Sherman  Hotel. 

"  I  think,  Doctor,  if  I  was  you,  —  which  I  ain't, 
goodness  knows,  I  don't  mean  to  set  myself  up,  — 
I  should  go  and  look  at  Mr  Yorke  before  you  go 
out,"  said  Mrs.  Butterwell,  presenting  herself  at 
the  office  the  next  morning.  "  He  has  a  dreadfully 
peaked  look,  and  he 's  got  past  Sally  Lunn  for 
breakfast.  As  long  as  he  took  hi.j  Sally  Lunns,  I 
knew  you  'd  found  THE  REMEDY."  (Mrs.  But- 


182  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

terwell  pronounced  these  two  words  with  that  ac 
cent  of  confiding  reverence  by  which  the  truly 
devout  homoBOpathist  may  be  instantly  classified.) 
"But  now  I'm  afraid  you  haven't.  He  never 
looked  at  a  thing  only  his  coffee,  and  he  swore  at 
that,  too.  He  thought  I  'd  gone,  but  I  had  n't." 

"  I  never  heard  Mr.  Yorke  swear,"  observed 
Doctor  Zay  dryly. 

"  Well,  he  did  ;  he  said  he  supposed  the  sooner 
he  drank  the  infernal  thing  and  done  with  it,  the 
better.  I  was  clear  across  the  entry,  but  I  heard 
him." 

The  doctor  went  as  she  was  bidden,  fortified  by 
her  hat  and  gloves  and  full  professional  demeanor. 
Yorke  was  on  the  lounge,  glaring  at  his  breakfast 
tray.  He  pushed  it  aside  when  he  saw  her,  and 
held  out  his  hand.  She  did  not  take  it,  but  drew 
out  her  note-book  and  medicine-case,  and  coldly 
asked  for  the  symptoms. 

"I  owe  you  an  apology,"  said  the  patient  at 
once,  drawing  back  his  hand. 

"  You  do  indeed,"  she  answered  sternly. 

"  I  can  do  no  more  than  offer  it,"  returned  the 
young  man  with  spirit.  "  If  you  had  ever  been  a 
man,  you  would  be  less  implacable." 

"  I  am  not  implacable,"  she  softened.  "  No  one 
ever  called  me  that." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  183 

"  It  is  possible  that  no  one  ever  called  you  sev 
eral  things  that  I  shall  have  occasion  to,"  observed 
the  patient,  running  his  white  hand  through  his 
hair,  and  sturdily  meeting  her  eyes,  which  seemed 
to  overlook  him  with  a  fathomless,  fatal  calm,  as  if 
he  were  a  being  of  another  solar  system,  speaking 
in  an  unknown  tongue. 

"  Mrs.  Butterwell  said  you  were  worse." 

"  I  have  had  no  sleep  and  no  breakfast :  it  does 
not  signify." 

"  It  does  signify,"  returned  Doctor  Zay  ;  "  it  is 
—  ridiculous." 

"You  use  sympathetic  language,  Doctor  Lloyd." 

"I  do  not  feel  sympathetic."  She  looked  deeply 
annoyed  ;  she  drew  out  her  miniature  vial  with  her 
tiny  pincers  in  frowning  hesitation.  "  I  have  no 
symptoms.  Give  me  some  symptoms  before  I  pre 
scribe." 

"  Where  is  your  friend  ?  "  asked  Yorke  abruptly. 
"  Has  he  gone  ?  " 

She  evinced  neither  surprise  nor  displeasure  at 
the  question,  but  laconically  answered,  — 

«  Yes." 

"  Then  you  will  not  be  engaged  with  him.  Will 
you  take  me  to  ride  to-night  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  that  for  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  home  next  week.  I  want  a  ride 
before  I  go." 


184  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Doctor  Zay,  after  a  severe 
pause.  "  Have  it  as  you  will.  Only  remember 
that  I  did  not  invite  you." 

"  I  promise  you  to  remember  as  much  as  that." 

"  Did  you  take  that  powder,  last  night?  " 

«  No." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  want  your  sugar ! "  with  rising 
fierceness.  He  quickly  repented  this  outburst,  and 
as  she  was  leaving  the  room,  he  asked,  with  what 
he  thought  a  masterly  effort  to  be  civil,  if  not  nat 
ural,  "  What  does  Cham.  5  m.  stand  for,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Champs  Elyse'es,  five  miles,"  she  said,  without 
turning  around. 

"  That  is  a  long  tramp  for  a  man  on  crutches." 

"  Altogether  too  long,"  retorted  the  doctor. 
"  He  should  n't  try  it." 

The  phaeton  came  to  the  door  directly  after  an 
early  tea,  and  Yorke  went  out,  and  got  in  without 
further  invitation.  Handy  helped  him.  The  doc 
tor  did  not  offer  her  shoulder.  She  came  down  the 
walk  consulting  her  visiting  list  with  an  absolution 
which  the  vainest  of  men  could  not  have  inter 
preted  as  less  than  real.  It  bitterly  occurred  to 
Yorke  that  she  had  already  forgotten  even  to  seem 
to  forget  what  had  cost  him  more  than  he  had 
nerve  of  soul  or  body  to  waste.  She  took  the  reins 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  185 

without  speaking,  and  they  drove  for  some  time 
silently  towards  the  large  August  sunset.  She 
wore  a  white  dress  which,  for  some  reason,  did  not 
become  her.  It  was  one  of  her  plainest  hours. 
He  watched  her  studious  and  anxious  face,  on 
which  lines  of  care  were  beginning  —  he  had  never 
noticed  before  —  to  notch  themselves  lightly,  as  if 
with  the  probational  or  preparatory  motion  which 
the  heavy  chisel  -  stroke  must  follow  soon  and 
surely.  It  came  to  his  thought  with  a  complex 
emotion,  how  dear  she  looked  to  him  when  she  was 
not  beautiful.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  say  why 
this  discovery  was  so  fraught  with  significance  to 
him. 

"  You  are  anxious  and  tired,  to-night,"  he  ven 
tured  at  length,  when  her  silence  had  lasted  so 
long  that  he  felt  it  was  veering  over  the  margin 
between  the  oppressive  and  the  dangerous. 

"  I  have  a  diphtheria  case  that  is  going  hard," 
she  said,  weariedly.  "It  is  Johnny  Sanscrit,  the 
minister's  little  boy,  —  his  only  child.  I  never 
stand  it  well  with  only  children.  They  sent  Doc 
tor  Adoniram  off,  in  their  extremity,  which  makes 
it  worse.  That  is  too  often  the  way :  the  patient 
comes  into  our  hands  just  in  time  for  us  to  sign 
the"  — 

"  Death  warrant  ?  "  interrupted  Yorke. 


186  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  The  technical  expression  is  death  certificate ; 
you  can  take  your  choice.  This  is  the  house.  I 
must  stop  here  first." 

Yorke  did  not  experience  that  acute  anxiety  in 
behalf  of  Johnny  Sanscrit  which  perhaps  should 
have  been  expected  of  a  humane  neighbor.  He 
occupied  himself  with  dwelling  upon  the  modern 
disadvantages  attending  an  interest  in  the  Useful 
Woman,  who  has  no  time  to  be  admired,  and  per 
haps  less  heart.  It  occurred  to  him  to  picture  one 
of  Scott's  or  Richardson's  stately  heroes  stranded 
meekly  in  a  basket  phaeton,  with  matters  of  feel 
ing  trembling  on  his  lips,  while  the  heroine  made 
professional  calls  and  forgot  him.  How  was  a 
man  going  to  approach  this  new  and  confusing 
type  of  woman  ?  The  old  codes  were  all  astray. 
Were  the  old  impulses  ruled  out  of  order,  too  ? 

But  Johnny  Sanscrit,  as  fate  would,  was  better, 
and  the  doctor  returned  to  the  phaeton,  trans 
formed. 

"  It  is  a  remarkable  adaptation  of  Lacliesis" 
she  said,  with  a  radiant  smile. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Yorke. 

"  And  I  hope  you  have  n't  got  chilly  ?  "  She 
looked  at  him  absently,  with  her  hazy,  happy 
eyes.  She  began  to  sparkle  with  conversation,  and 
overflow  with  good  humor.  Yorke  reminded  him 
self  that  it  was  owing  to  Johnny  Sanscrit. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  187 

She  Lad  regained  herself,  and  looked  superbly. 
The  opacity  of  the  white  dress  softened  in  the 
softening  light.  As  the  sun  dropped,  she  drew 
over  her  shoulders  a  fine  Stuart  plaid  shawl  which 
he  liked.  He  welcomed  her  moody  beauty  with 
exultance,  as  he  had  protected  its  absence  with 
tenderness. 

They  drove  to  poor  Molly's,  who  proved  to  be 
better.  Everybody  was  better.  The  doctor  was 
girlishly  happy.  They  rode  past  the  mill-pond 
and  the  silent  wheel,  and  through  the  well  of  trees, 
and  up  the  darkening  hill ;  and  she  said  she  had 
but  one  more  call  to  make,  and  then  they  would 
go  home.  There  was  a  wood-cutter's  wife  who  ex 
pected  her,  if  Mr.  Yorke  felt  able  to  go.  Mr. 
Yorke  felt  quite  able,  and  they  turned  from  the 
road  into  the  narrow  cart-path,  that  wound  at  that 
hour  like  a  blazing  green  and  golden  serpent 
through  the  late  light  and  long  shadow,  towards 
the  forest's  heart. 

"Are  you  never  tired  of  it?"  asked  Yorke, 
suddenly,  as  they  entered  the  cart-path. 

"Of  my  work  ?    Never  !  " 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  It  would  be  like  tiring 
of  a  great  opal  to  be  fickle  with  usefulness  like 
yours." 

"  What  a  pretty   thought !  "   she   interrupted, 


188  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

with  that  delicate  and  gradual  expression  of  sur 
prise  by  which  a  poetic  image  always  overtook  her 
practically  occupied  imagination. 

"  I  meant,"  explained  Yorke,  "  don't  you  get 
tired  of  the  surroundings  you  have  chosen  for  it? 
Do  you  never  feel  the  need  of  resetting  it  ?  " 

"  What  could  be  better  ?  "  She  pointed  with  her 
whip  down  the  sinuous,  shaded  driveway.  The 
trees  met  above  it.  The  horse's  feet  sounded 
softly  on  the  grass.  The  great  shadows  from  the 
forest  advanced.  The  great  glory  of  the  receding 
sun.  struggled  through  the  shield  of  fine  leaf-out 
lines.  The  entrance  to  the  road,  like  its  termina 
tion,  was  blotted  out  in  splendid  curves  and  colors, 
which  seemed  to  bar  the  intruders  in,  as  if  they 
had  trespassed  upon  some  sweet  or  awful  secret  of 
the  woods,  with  which  they  could  not  be  trusted, 
if  set  free.  It  was  one  of  those  scenes,  it  was  one 
of  those  moments,  when  the  power  of  the  forest 
overshadows  the  soul  like  the  power  of  the  High 
est,  and  when  Nature  seems  to  approach  us  on  her 
knees  in  the  service  of  a  Greater  than  herself, 
bearing  a  message  too  mystic  for  any  but  our  un 
worldly,  unspotted  selves  to  receive. 

Yorke  looked  from  the  face  of  the  wilderness  to 
the  face  of  the  woman. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  very 
lonely." 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  189 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but,  turning  a  sudden 
soft  grassy  corner,  came  to  a  halt  at  her  wood-cut 
ter's  and  forsook  him  for  her  patient  with  that 
easy  adaptability  to  which  he  never  became  accus 
tomed.  She  was  not  gone  long,  but  it  was  dark 
ening  rapidly  in  the  woods  when  she  came  out, 
and  she  drove  slowly  through  the  looming  shadow, 
over  the  rude  road. 

"  There  is  a  short  cut  home  through  the  woods," 
she  said.  "  We  will  take  it,  unless  it  seems  damp 
to  you." 

"  No,  let  us  take  it,"  he  said  absently.  They 
rode  through  the  sweet,  dry  dusk  among  the  pines. 
It  was  too  dark  to  see  each  other's  faces.  The 
consciousness  of  her  presence,  their  ^solitude,  their 
approaching  separation,  arose  and  took  hold  of 
Yorke  like  a  hand  at  his  throat,  from  whose  grip 
he  was  strangling.  It  was  to  him  as  if  he  struck 
out  for  his  life  when  he  said,  — 

"  Miss  Lloyd,  I  told  you  I  was  going  home  next 
week.  I  wish  to  tell  you  why." 

"  Don't !  "  she  said  quickly.     "  Don't !  " 

He  thrust  her  words  aside,  as  if  they  had  been 
women,  with  a  fierce  gesture  of  his  invalid  hands. 
"  It  is  not  for  you  to  tell  me  what  I  shall  do  or 
not.  I  am  not  talking  about  my  ankle  or  my 
spine.  This  is  not  a  case  of  pellets  and  bandages 


190  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

and  faints  and  fol-de-rol.  I  will  not  have  your 
precautions  and  advice.  I  will  say  what  I  have 
to  say.  I  will  take  no  interference.  I  will  speak, 
and  you  shall  hear." 

"  If  you  speak,  I  must  hear,  but  I  warn  you.  I 
beg  you  not !  " 

"  And  why,  I  demand,  do  you  beg  me  not  ? 
What  right  have  you  ?  What  "  — 

"  The  right  of  my  responsibility,"  she  answered, 
in  a  tone  too  low  to  be  calm,  and  yet  too  controlled 
to  be  agitated. 

"  I  relieve  you  of  the  slightest  responsibility  !  " 

"  You  cannot." 

"  But  I  do  assume  that  deadly  burden.  My 
shoulders  are  broad  enough  yet,  —  though  I  am  a 
poor  fool  of  a  sick  man,  dependent  on  your  wis 
dom,  in  debt  to  you  for  his  unfortunate  life  "  — 

"  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Yorke  "  — 

"  I  insist.  You  will  oblige  me  by  explaining 
why  I  should  not  say  what  I  like  to  you,  as  well 
as  to  any  other  woman." 

"  Because  you  are  not  strong  enough." 

"I  am  strong  enough  to  love  you,  at  all  events." 
He  drew  one  great  breath,  and  looked  at  her 
through  the  dark  with  straining  eyeballs,  like  a 
blind  man.  She  gave  no  sign  of  surprise  or  frail 
feminine  protest.  Although  it  was  so  dark,  he 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  191 

could  see  (her  long  gloves  were  white)  the  steady 
pull  of  her  hand  on  the  reins,  at  which  the  pony 
was  twiching  and  shying  over  the  uneven  road. 
After  a  moment  of  oppressive  silence,  she  said, 
with  cruelly  gentle  sadness,  — 

"  That  is  exactly  what  you  are  not  strong  enough 
to  do." 

"  Do  you  presume  to  tell  a  man  he  does  n't 
know  when  he  loves  a  woman  ?  "  cried  Yorke, 
quivering,  stung  beyond  endurance. 

"  You  are  not  in  love,"  she  said  calmly,  "  you 
are  only  nervous." 


X. 

THEY  had  come  out  now  upon  the  open  road. 
Faint  colors  remained  in  the  west,  —  ashes-of-roses 
and  alloyed  gold.  There  was  a  young  moon  sink 
ing  behind  the  forest.  The  untrodden  street 
stretched  on,  dimly  defined  in  the  immature  light. 
The  windows  of  the  near  village  glimmered  rud- 
dily  beyond. 

"  Drive  faster,"  said  Yorke.  "  I  must  get 
home."  He  had  the  heavy,  painful  pant  of  an  ex 
hausted  man.  She  gave  one  glance  at  him,  and 
one  fleck  of  the  whip  to  the  pony,  who  put  down 
her  head,  and  took  to  her  slender  feet  the  wings 
of  the  wind.  The  night  air  came  in  warm  gusts 
against  their  faces  as  they  flew  over  the  solitary 
road.  She  drove  directly  to  her  own  side  of  the 
house,  tied  the  horse,  and  resolutely  presented  her 
shoulder. 

"  I  have  hurt  you,"  she  said  gently.  "  You 
must  let  me  help  you  —  this  once." 

He  did  not  repulse  her ;  he  felt  too  sick.  It 
seemed  to  make  little  difference  what  happened, 
and  so  he  got  into  the  house.  She  helped  him 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  193 

through  into  the  parlor,  and  shut  the  outer  doors. 
Only  one  low  lamp  burned  somewhere ;  in  the  of 
fice,  he  thought.  She  groped  for  matches;  he 
lay  a'nd  listened  to  the  fine  rustle  of  her  linen 
dress.  As  more  light  flashed  into  the  room,  he 
saw  her  standing  in  her  white  clothes.  She  looked 
very  tall  and  pale?  She  brought  him  a  tablespoon- 
ful  of  brandy,  which  he  swallowed  obediently,  and 
for  which  he  felt  better.  Then,  without  percepti 
ble  hesitation,  this  remarkable  young  woman  took 
out  her  medicine-case. 

"  Are  you  a  woman  ?  "  he  panted. 

"  I  am  a  doctor." 

"  Take  away  your  sugar-plums  !  " 

She  drew  the  rubber  strap  over  the  case. 

"  As  you  please.  Your  condition  calls  for  a 
remedy.  I  can't  have  you  subject  to  these  nerv 
ous  sinking-turns." 

"I  need  no  remedy  —  but  one.  It  is  the  only 
one,  — the  Divine  Remedy  in  deed  and  truth.  You 
refuse  it  to  me." 

"  I  have  refused  you  nothing." 

"True;  I  have  asked  for  nothing.  But 'you 
would  deny  me,  if  I  did." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  solemnly,  "  I  should." 

"  Sit  down  by  me,"  pleaded  Yorke.  "  I  want 
to  finish  this." 

13 


194  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

You  had  much  better  wait,"  she  urged  with 
decision,  but  not  without  tenderness,  — that  ready, 
cruel,  professional  tenderness  ;  he  would  rather 
she  had  poisoned  him. 

"  I  will  not  wait.  I  am  stronger.  See  !  —  I  am 
all  right  now,  although,  as  you  said,  not  strong 
enough  to  —  What  a  merciless  thing  that  was 
to  say !  " 

"  I  know  it  must  have  seemed  so,  Mr.  Yorke. 
Believe,  if  you  can,  that  I  mean  to  be  kind." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Yorke,  struggling  up 
against  the  bright  bizarre  sofa  pillows,  and  turn 
ing  his  haggard  face  towards  her,  "  that  the  only 
thing  I  am  strong  enough  to  do,  yet,  is  to  love 
you.  I  believe  it  is  the  only  thing  I  have  ever  done 
strongly  in  my  life.  It  will  not  be  the  last.  I  can 
see  already  how  it  is  going  to  alter  everything. 
Good  God  !  What  is  a  man  going  to  do,  with  life 
before  him,  and  such  a  feeling  in  it !  It  will  take 
the  work  of  ten  to  hold  him.  There  is  n't  a  woman 
of  the  whole  of  you  that  knows  what  it  is. 
There  's  more  of  you  than  any  other  woman  I  ever 
knew,  but  you  don't  know  ;  you  cant  know." 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  chair,  a  little  side- 
wise,  leaning  back,  just  as  she  had  dropped  there 
when  he  asked  her  to  sit  by  him,  her  hands  clasped 
over  the  medicine-case,  with  whose  rubber  strap 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  195 

she  had  bound  her  fingers  down.  She  watched 
him  with  a  look  which  no  plummet  in  his  soul 
could  fathom. 

"  You  are  wrong  ! "  lie  cried.  "  You  are  cold, 
unnatural !  It  was  unwomanly  in  you  to  tell  me 
I  was  only  nervous  !  " 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time  that  a  woman  has  been 
called  unwomanly  for  saying  the  truth,"  said  Doc 
tor  Zay,  without  flinching.  "  I  do  not  doubt  I 
have  seemed  unwomanlike  to  you  in  many  other 
respects.  Your  ideal  and  my  fact  are  a  world's 
width  apart." 

"  You  have  never  seemed  unwomanly  to  me,  in 
all  that  we  have  been  through,  —  never  once!" 

O       ' 

said  Yorke.  "  I  have  thought  you,  from  the  very 
first  —  you  have  been  to  me  the  loveliest  woman  I 
ever  knew  !  "  His  voice  shook.  She  sat,  without 
a  change  either  in  her  attitude  or  expression,  re 
garding  him  with  narrow,  inscrutable  eyes. 

"  I  have  not  thought,"  he  went  on,  with  gather 
ing  strength,  "  I  have  not  dared  to  think,  that  I 
had  won  anything  from  you,  —  a  sick  man  whin 
ing  on  your  little  bottles  for  the  breath  of  life  ! 
And  I  know  that  others,  other  men  —  I  understand 
my  cruel  disadvantage  ;  it  is  that  that  galls  me 
so!" 

*'  Other  men  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  she 


196  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

said  gravely.  "  I  have  had  different  things  to  do 
from  thinking  what  would  be  pleasing  to  men. 
My  life  is  not  like  other  women's.  It  is  not  often 
that  I  am  troubled  in  this  way.  I  do  not  mean  to 
treat  you  harshly,  believe  me.  But  I  do  not  say 
hard  things  easily ;  perhaps  I  am  out  of  prac 
tice." 

"  Surely,"  said  Yorke,  smiling  despite  himself 
at  this,  "  you  have  known  what  it  is  to  be  loved." 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  beloved,"  she  answered  sim 
ply.  "  I  suppose  no  woman  avoids  that.  If  I  had 
not,  I  should  have  no  right  to  tell  you  that  you  are 
not  in  love.  I  should  not  have  any  standard." 

"  Nothing  can  give  you  any  such  right !  "  he  re 
peated  feverishly. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  continue  this  discus 
sion,"  she  said,  after  a  painful  pause.  "  I  seem  to 
have  few  ideas  and  fewer  words  for  such  a  pur 
pose.  I  can  find  nothing  to  tell  you  but  what  I 
said  in  the  carriage.  My  professional  responsibil 
ity  gives  me  my  right." 

"  And  I  reiterate  what  I  said  in  the  carriage,  — 
that  I  relieve  you  of  what  you  call  your  responsi 
bility." 

"  Then  I  must  renew  my  answer,  —  that  this  is 
a  thing  you  cannot  do.  So  we  are  repeating  our 
selves,  like  history,  and  proving  how  worse  than 
vain  it  is  to  talk  in  this  way." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  197 

"  You  speak  as  if  I  were  a  creature  lent  to  you, 
intrusted  to  you,  soul  and  body ! "  blazed  the 
young  man. 

"  So  you  were,"  said  the  physician  quietly. 
"  So  you  are." 

"  If  anything  could  make  me  wnlove  you,"  said 
Yorke,  with  calm  desperation,  "  such  a  speech  as 
that  would  do  it.  But  it  works  just  the  other  way. 
Listen  to  me,  Miss  Lloyd.  I  will  love  you.  You 
cannot  help  it.  I  will  tell  you  so.  You  cannot 
help  that.  You  must  accept  it.  You  must  endure 
it.  You  must  remember  it.  I  shall  not  allow  you 
to  forget  it." 

One  swift,  dangerous  gleam  darted  from  her 
guarded  eyes.  The  whole  woman  seemed  impelled 
by  some  elemental  instinct,  mightier  than  he, 
mightier  than  herself,  to  warn  him  off.  She  did 
not  trust  herself  to  speak,  and  this  gave  him  the 
first  advantage  he  had  felt ;  he  hastened  to  avail 
himself  of  it. 

"  It  is  insufferable  that  any  woman  should  treat 
any  man  as  you  treat  me.  Because  I  am  a  pa 
tient,  am  I  not  a  man  ?  Because  I  dislocated  my 
ankle  and  concussed  my  brain  (as  is  quite  evident 
now,  if  it  never  was  before),  am  I  to  be  set  aside 
like  a  hysteric  girl,  for  the  state  of  whose  limp 
emotions  her  medical  attendant  feels  in  honor 
bound  to  look  out?  " 


198  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  any  reason,"  asked  Doctor 
Zay  serenely,  "  why  I  should  not  feel  the  same 
sense  of  honor  that  a  man  would  in  the  case  you 
describe  ?  But  I  have  never  called  you  hysteric." 

"  You  consider  my  lova  a  symptom,  I  suppose, 

—  another  symptom ;  like  a  nervous  sinking-turn, 
or  my  afternoon  headaches." 

"  Since  you  press  the  question,  Mr.  Yorke,  I  do, 
indeed.  That  is  just  what  I  consider  it." 

"  It 's  a  pretty  serious  one,"  fiercely,  "  as  you 
will  find  out  before  you  have  done  with  me.  It 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  any  pellet  in  your  little 
case  ;  the  remedy  is  not  included  in  your  Materia 
Medica." 

"  That  may  be  true.  But  Nature  has  her  own 
unerring  prescriptions.  A  single  dose  of  absence 

—  even  in  the  first  attenuation  —  will  work  a  re 
covery  which  will  astonish  yourself,  sir.     It  will 
not  surprise  me." 

She  said  the  last  five  words  with  a  vague  sad 
ness,  elusive  as  the  sigh  of  a  ghost,  which  did  not 
escape  the  lover's  fine  ear.  She  rose  as  she  spoke, 
and  pushed  back  her  chair.  She  stood  looking 
down  at  him.  For  a  silent  moment  his  suffering 
and  weakness  seemed  to  plead  with  her  splendid 
nerve  and  strength,  and  to  find  them  implacable  ; 
yet  to  urge  her,  perhaps,  against  her  own  deterini- 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  199 

nation,  into  the  tone  of  something  like  self-defense, 
in  which,  she  said,  — 

"  What  should  I  be,  if  I  could  take  the  charge 
of  a  man  like  you,  —  a  sensitive  man,  struck  down 
in  perfect  health  by  such  a  serious  nervous  shock, 
knowing  nothing  of  its  subtler  effects ;  a  man 
brought  up  from  the  grip  of  death  inch  by  inch 
back  to  life,  dependent  on  the  creature  who  saves 
him,  confusing  his  gratitude  and  his  idleness  and 
his  suffering  with  other  feelings  so  much  greater, 
—  what  sort  of  a  woman  should  I  be,  if  I  did  not 
feel  responsible  for  him  ?  I  should  despise  myself, 
Mr.  Yorke,  if  I  let  you  drift  into  such  breakers  as 
those  ;  if  I  allowed  you  to  believe  that  this  is  love 
you  feel  for  me.  I  should  think  it  was  the  most 
unwomanly  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life !  " 

He  had  risen  to  reply  to  her,  and  they  confronted 
each  other,  flashing  and  pale. 

"  Not  a  word  more  to-night,"  she  said  authori 
tatively.  "  It  is  unsafe  and  wrong  ;  I  cannot  per 
mit  you  talk  in  this  way  another  moment.  Go 
back  to  your  room,  and  go  to  bed.  Sleep  if  you 
can.  Go  home  next  week  ;  as  you  intended.  It 
will  be  the  wisest  thing  you  have  done  for  a  long 
while." 

"  I  must  see  you  again  to-morrow,"  said  Yorke, 
stretching  out  his  hand  blindly. 


200  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied,  without  hesitation. 
"  I  do  not  advise  it,  but  I  will  not  refuse  it.  Only 
go  now,  and  —  I  hope  you  will  sleep,"  she  added 
sorrowfully. 

She  stood  watching  him  as  he  tottered  to  the 
door.  Had  he  seen  the  expression  of  her  face  he 
would  have  got  no  comfort  from  it ;  he  would 
not  even  have  understood  it ;  yet  he  would  have 
felt  it  to  be  an  indefinable  gain  that  he  had  not 
missed  it. 

"  Mr.  Yorke  !  "  He  turned  drearily  around. 
"  Put  yourself  in  my  place  for  a  moment.  Re 
verse  our  positions." 

Her  words  died  before  his  protesting,  passionate 
man's  eyes.  Just  then  she  pitied  them  more  than 
any  woman's  she  had  ever  seen. 

"  I  can't,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  It  makes  a  mad 
man  of  me  ! " 


• 

'$ 


XL 

THE  next  morning  it  rained.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Butterwell  therefore  experienced  astonishment 
when  their  invalid  lodger  appeared  at  breakfast 
with  the  request  that  Mr.  Bulterwell  would  drive 
him  out  to  conduct  some  business  relative  to  his 
uncle's  estate. 

"  You  look  fitter  to  be  abed  and  tended  up," 
said  his  hostess,  halting  at  that  stage  of  latent 
sympathy  which  we  are  moved  to  express  to  the 
sick  by  active  severity.  "  I  '11  read  to  you,  if  that 
will  keep  you  home  and  teach  you  sense.  I  '11  read 
poetry,  if  you  like.  I  can.  Isaiah  has  a  copy  of 
Tennyson's  In  Memorial  (I  gave  it  to  him'Christ- 
mas),  though  I  must>.f»ay  I  never  could  find  head 
nor  tail  on  it  more  '11  on  a  roasted  chicken.  I  '11 
read  you  anything  but  the  Bible.  It 's  against  my 
principles  to  read  Bible  to  sick  folks.  It  ain't 
cheerful  enough.  Mr.  Butterwell  had  the  liver 
complaint  once,  and  he  got  such  a  shine  for  readia' 
in  the  Minor  Prophets  and  the  Imprecatory  Psalms 
I  told  the  Doctor  it  was  the  most  serious  symptom 
about  him  ;  and  it  was.  He  'd  have  pined  right 


DOCTOR   ZAY. 

along  if  I  had  n't  got  him  into  the  genealogies  in 
Matthew,  and  so  eased  off  on  to  the  secular  page 
of  the  Congregationalist,  and  slipped  him  up  one 
day  into  Mark  Twain's  'Innocents  Abroad.' ': 

"  Why,  Sar-iik  !  "  said  Mr.  Butterwell  patiently. 
But  he  went  out  to  harness  his  big  sorrel  at  once, 
since,  if  Mr.  Yorke  wished  to  ride,  that  ended  the 
matter.  Mr.  Butterwell  failed  to  see  what  his 
liver  complaint  had  to  do  with  poor  Jed's  estate, 
and  more  than  ever  realized  his  own  deficiencies 
in  general  conversation. 

"  It  is  time  I  began  to  thank  you  for  an  infinite 
series  of  obligations,  Mrs.  Butterwell,"  said  Yorke, 
pushing  back  his  chair  from  .the  breakfast  table. 
"  I  am  going  home  next  week." 

"  Infinite  fiddlesticks !  "  retorted  Mrs.  Butter- 
well.  "  Going  to  —  Surinam  !  "  Her  soft  eyes 
peered  at  him  gently  as  a  bird's  over  these  terri 
ble  words.  "  Why,  Doctor  hjo  n't  got  half  through 
with  you  !  " 

"I  am  afraid  she  has,  quite  through,"  said  the 
young  man.  "  I  am  going  by  Monday's  boat,  if  I 
can  get  over  to  Jonesboro'  in  season  to  take  it.  I 
shall  find  the  best  man  I  can  round  here,  and  leave 
Uncle  Jed's  affairs  in  the  hands  of  a  local  lawyer. 
I  am  not  strong  enough  to  be  bothered  with  them. 
I  have  written  to  my  mother  that  I  shall  join  her 
at  Nahant  as  soon  as  possible." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  203 

"  Does  Doctor  think  you  're  fit  to  take  the  jour 
ney  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Butterwell,  after  some  studious 
consideration. 

"I  didn't  ask  her.  She  approves  of  my  go- 
ing." 

"  Doctor  knows  best  about  things  in  her  line," 
replied  Mrs.  Butterwell,  closely  regarding  her 
lodger.  "  But  between  you  and  me,  there  's  one 
thing  that  ain't  in  it." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Yorke,  with  a  pale 
smile. 

"Men-folks,"  said  Mrs.  Butterwell  succinctly. 
She  considerered  this  a  truly  scholarly  reply,  which 
it  was  not  precise  to  amend  by  foot-notes.  Her 
shrewd,  homely  face  lengthened  as  Mr.  Yorke 
limped  away.  Mrs.  Butterwell  had  received  a 
shock. 

Doctor  Zay  was  called  out  early  that  day,  and 
kept  out  late.  Yorke  attended  to  his  business, 
and  made  no  effort  to  see  her  till  night.  She  was 
away  at  dinner,  and  he  took  tea  in  his  own  room. 
The  storm  continued.  He  passed  an  idle,  almost 
an  entirely  solitary  day.  He  had  some  scientific 
books  of  Wallace's  which  she  had  lent  him  :  he 
tried  to  read;  the  thing  was  impossible.  The  rain 
came  in  gusts  upon  the  windows,  with  lulls  be 
tween  ;  he  listened  to  it  with  a  sense  of  personal 


204  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

irritation  at  the  nervous  combat  of  sound  and  si 
lence,  which  served  as  a  shallow  outlet  to  the 
steady  torrent  of  his  feeling. 

We  find  it  in  our  way,  as  we  get  well  past  these 
sharp  alternations  of  shine  and  shade,  to  miss  some 
thing  of  sympathy  with  what  time  has  blurred  into 
dim  backgrounds  for  ourselves  ;  to  see  less  of  the 
dignity,  less  of  the  pathos,  more  of  the  frailty,  and 
more  of  the  folly  of  the  great  passions  before  which 
youth  and  vigor  and  hope  and  rectitude  are  beaten 
down  like  breath  before  the  oncoming  of  cyclones. 
And  yet  I  think  it  is  not  the  best  way  of  aging, 
to  grow  so  gray  at  the  heart,  and  that  it  were  what 
might  almost  be  called  a  coarse  thing  to  smile  at 
our  young  fellow  here,  wri tiling  in  the  grip  of  his 
first  clench  with  life.  He  loved,  or  thought  he 
did.  It  is  better  to  be  off  with  our  hats  and  down 
on  our  knees  to  illusions  that  we  have  long  since 
overthrown,  than  to  withhold  from  the  most  trans 
parent  of  them  the  reverence  which  is  the  eternal 
due  of  human  conflict. 

He  sought  her  in  the  evening,  through  the  steady 
downfall  of  the  storm.  She  had  never  invited  him 
to  make  use  of  that  other  door,  which  connected 
her  parlor  with  the  body  of  the  house.  It  was  so 
wet  that  he  ventured  to  go  before  the  office  hours 
were  over,  thinking  that  no  one  would  be  there. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  205 

He  found  himself  mistaken.  A  patient  was  in 
conference  with  her,  and  he  waited  awkwardly  in 
the  office  till  the  woman  had  gone. 

This  little  misstep  seemed,  when  they  were  left 
alone  together,  to  give  him  an  unnecessary  disad 
vantage  before  her.  He  stood,  embarrassed  and 
savage,  midway  between  the  office  and  the  lighted 
parlor.  "  I  thought  there  was  nobody  here,"  he 
said  confusedly. 

"  And  there  is  n't,"  she  answered,  smiling  up 
at  him  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Her  sweet 
womanly  graciousness,  which  set  him  at  ease  again, 
seemed  subtly  to  put  her  out  of  it,  and  to  give  him 
a  vague  sense  of  having  gained  a  mastery  of  the 
moment,  which  he  did  not  see  his  way  to  use. 

He  did  not  try  to  use  it,  and  followed  her  into 
the  parlor,  cursing  his  inadequacy. 

"  Won't  you  take  the  lounge  ? "  she  asked, 
wheeling  it  lightly  towards  him. 

"No.  I  must  learn  to  sit  up,  if  I  am  going 
Monday." 

"  Monday  ?  "  She  could  not,  or  did  not  control 
a  slight  movement  of  surprise.  He  tried  in  vain 
to  interpret  it  as  one  of  regret. 

"  If  I  can.  The  sooner  the  better.  You  agree 
with  me,  I  am  sure." 

"  As   a   person,  yes.     As    a  physician,  no.     It 


206  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

would  be  safer  for  you  to  wait  till  the  next  boat. 
You  are  hardly  ready  for  the  journey.  You  are 
living  on  nerve." 

"  And  shall  till  I  get  away  from  you,"  said 
Yorke  bluntly. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  returned  the  doctor,  sighing;  "  I 
am  of  course  a  little  at  sea  in  such  a  case  as  this. 
I  wish  to  facilitate  your  departure  as  much  and  as 
fast  as  I  can."  She  stiffened  into  her  professional 
manner.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  struck  a  glacier  in  a 
clover-field. 

"  I  want  to  talk  this  out  before  I  go,"  proceeded 
Yorke  doggedly. 

"  It  only  wastes  nerve-fibre,"  said  the  doctor  in 
an  undertone. 

"  The  physiological  basis  is  not  the  only  one  on 
which  life  is  to  be  taken,  Doctor  Zay.  I  have 
told  you  before,  that  I  am  a  man  as  well  as  a  pa 
tient.  Try  to  remember  it,  if  you  can." 

"  What  is  the  use  in  remembering  it  ?  "  she  said 
unexpectedly.  He  held  his  breath  for  a  moment, 
scrutinizing  her  averted  face. 

"  Do  you  mind,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "  my  ask 
ing  whether  I  am  so  far  too  late  in  the  declaration 
of  my  feeling  for  you,  that  some  other  man  would 
have  a  right,  or  think  he  had,  to  "  — 
.  "  I  am  not  going  to  marry  Dr.  Penhallow,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean,"  she  interrupted  calmly. 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  207 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Yorke,  after  what  seemed  to 
her  a  long  silence.  He  could  not  keep  the  rebel 
lious  hope  out  of  his  pale  face.  It  dashed  at  her 
like  a  sunlit  shower. 

She  looked  up,  saw  it,  and  shook  her  head  at  it, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  word  or  outcry. 

"It  is  not  impossible,  then,"  persisted  he, 
"  that  you  might  some  time  begin  to  love  me  "  — 

"  It  is  like  the  miracles,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"  It  is  not  logic  to  assume  their  impossibility. 
Their  improbability  is  so  great  that  it  amounts 
to  about  the  same  thing.  Put  aside  the  thought 
of  my  loving  you,  Mr.  Yorke,  in  justice  and  in 
mercy  to  yourself.  I  cannot  demonstrate  to  you 
the  futility  of  your  hope.  I  can  only  state  it.  The 
sooner  you  accept  it,  the  better  for  us  both.  Let 
us  consider  this  a  case  of  aphonia  and  aphasia,  and 
be  done  with  it." 

"  Explain  yourself  to  the  ignorant,  my  learned 
physician." 

"  Aphonia  is  inability  to  speak  "  — 

"  Oh  yes  ;  my  Greek  might  have  stood  me  for 
that.  And  aphasia  is  "  — 

"  Inability  to  say  certain  things.  Or  at  least 
that  will  pass  for  a  popular  definition." 

"  That  is  a  scientific  reply,"  said  Yorke,  regard 
ing  her  keenly.  " I  am  not  sure  that  it  is" —  He 


208  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

checked  himself.  She  did  not  ask  him  to  finish 
his  sentence,  but  sat  with  downcast,  troubled  lids 
before  him.  • 

"  Suppose  yon  could  love  me,"  he  urged,  "  in 
the  course  of  time,  after  a  good  while  ;  suppose 
you  did  not  thwart  or  deny  the  feeling  of  kindli 
ness  which  I  hope  I  may  say  you  have  for  me ; 
suppose  you  reconsidered  the  reasonableness  of  the 
miracle." 

"  It  would  make  no  difference  ;  none  at  all  !  " 
She  lifted  her  head,  and  her  eyes,  like  sleepless 
sentinels,  forced  him  off.  All  his  manhood  roused 
itself  to  defy  them.  He  felt  himself  swept  along 
by  a  power  as  mysterious  to  him  as  if  he  only  out 
of  the  world  had  ever  come  into  helpless  and  beau 
tiful  contact  with  it.  All  his  lot,  like  a  Pagan 
fate,  moved  on  in  its  destined  way  to  its  appointed 
end.  He  experienced  the  terrible  acceleration  of  a 
passion,  and  found  that  neither  nature  nor  obser 
vation  had  given  him  any  more  prevision  of  the 
force  of  the  torrent  than  they  had  power  where 
with  to  stay  it. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  repeated,  —  "I  love  you  !  " 
as  if  the  fact  itself  must  be  an  appeal  inexorable 
to  her  as  the  laws  of  light,  or  gravitation,  or  any 
natural  code  which  she  could  not  infringe  without 
penalty. 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  209 

She  made  a  slight  gesture,  which  seemed  one 
of  entreaty  rather  than  of  impatience,  rose,  and 
walked  over  to  the  window,  which  she  flung  open. 
A  dash  of  rain  swept  through.  She  stood  in  the 
gust  for  a  moment.  The  light  from  the  globed 
lamps  struggled  out  against  the  darkness,  and 
Yorke  could  see  a  wet  honeysuckle  staring  in  ;  the 
yellow  flower  dripped  and  nodded  at  him. 

He  got  up  and  followed  her,  half  unconsciously. 

"  You  would  not  want  to  give  up  your  profes 
sion,"  he  began.  "  You  should  not  give  it  up  !  I 
would  not  ask  it  "  — 

A  slow,  slight  smile  curled  the  delicate  corners 
of  her  lips. 

"  You  will  take  cold,"  she  said.  She  shut  the 
window,  and,  turning,  faced  him.  Her  hair  was 
wet  with  the  rain,  and  glittered. 

"  Have  you  nothing  for  me  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Nothing  that  you  would  care  for.  Men  do 
not  value  a  woman's  friendship.  They  do  not 
understand  it.  They  do  not  know  what  to  do 
with  it." 

"  No  !  I  will  not  have  your  friendship  !  "  He 
turned  his  back  to  her,  and  stood,  trembling. 

"  It  would  be  perfectly  useless  to  you,  if  you 
would,"  said  Doctor  Zay,  a  little  drearily.  "  You 
are  not  well  enough  to  try  difficult  experiments. 
14 


210  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

Make  up  your  mind  to  let  them  all  alone,  —  and 
me,  too." 

"  I  will  never  let  you  alone  ! "  said  the  lover, 
under  his  breath. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will,"  said  the  woman  of  science 
quietly.  "  In  a  few  months  you  will  find  it  easier 
to  let  me  alone  than  to  shatter  your  nervous  sys 
tem  over  me  in  this  way.  Nothing  could  be 
worse,"  she  added,  "  for  those  spinal  symptoms." 

"  I  believe  they  are  right,"  answered  Yorke, 
with  dull  bitterness  ;  his  imagination  at  that  mo 
ment  was  denuded  of  hope.  "  A  woman  cannot 
follow  a  career  without  ruin  to  all  that  is  noblest 
and  sweetest  and  truest  in  her  nature.  Your  heart 
is  as  hard  as  your  lancet.  Your  instinct  has  be 
come  as  cruel.  If  I  had  a  fair  chance,  it  should 
not  be  so.  I  would  compel  you  to  feel  my  pres 
ence,  to  recognize  my  claim.  You  should  be 
wounded  by  a  bullet  that  you  could  not  find,  — 
that  slipped,  and  defied  your  probe,  and  rankled 
till  you  respected  it." 

He  had  made  his  way  back,  weakly,  as  he  spoke, 
to  the  sofa,  upon  which  he  sank,  pale  and  pant 
ing. 

"  The  sick  are  at  such  horrible  odds  !  "  he  cried. 
"  It  must  be  bad  enough  for  a  woman,  but  for  a 
man  "  — 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  211 

He  stopped,  startled.  She  had  floated  to  him 
with  an  impetuous  motion.  He  saw  her  out 
stretched  hands  ;  she  leaned  above  him  ;  her  reso 
lute  features  broke. 

"  Stop  !  "  she  said.     "  Please  stop  !  " 

"What  should  I  stop  for?"  He  held  up  his 
arms.  She  retreated  like  a  dream,  and  stood  tow 
ering  above  him,  like  a  statue.  The  agitation  of 
her  face  contrasted  singularly  with  the  massive- 
ness  of  her  attitude.  He  was  sure  that  he  saw 
tears  before  she  dashed  them  away  as  if  they  had 
been  ignoble  impulses. 

"  Mr.  Yorke,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  infinite  gen 
tleness,  "  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  bless 
me  for  what  I  am  doing  now,  —  for  my  '  heart- 
lessness,'  my  'cruelty,'  my  'unwomanliness.'  They 
are  three  words  easy  to  remember.  I  shall  not 
forget  them  —  at  once.  You  will  retract  them 
some  time.  You  will  tell  me  that  perhaps  I  de 
served  a  —  milder  phrase.  But  never  mind  that ! 
It  is  not  a  question  of  what  I  deserve.  It  is  a 
question  of  what  you  require.  Beyond  doubt,  that 
is  absolute  separation  from  all  this  pathological 
sentiment,  and  the  exciting  cause  of  it.  I  insist 
upon  this  separation.  I  will  not  receive  any  move 
expressions  of  your  supposed  feeling  for  myself. 
Go  home  to  your  mother  and  your  own  people,  — 


212  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

to  the  kind  of  women  you  are  used  to,  and  under 
stand.  As  you  grow  physically  stronger,  you  will 
rebound  to  your  own  environment  as  naturally  as 
you  will  walk  without  crutches.  I  have  been  noth 
ing  but  a  crutch  to  you,  Mr.  Yorke  !  " 

He  raised  himself  upon  the  pillows,  leaning  his 
head  upon  his  hand  and  shading  his  eyes,  watch 
ing  her  intently  ;  he  did  not  interrupt  her.  She 
went  on,  in  a  low,  controlled  voice  :  — 

"  Take  it  away,  and  go  alone,  and  you  will  learn 
what  you  would  never  learn  as  long  as  you  de 
pended  on  it.  I  think  you  will  always  remember 
me  gratefully  and  affectionately.  I  hope  you  will. 
Nothing  is  more  valuable  in  life  to  a  physician 
than  the  fidelity  of  a  patient ;  it  is  surprising  how 
little  there  is  of  it,  after  all.  They  go  their  ways 
when  they  need  us  no  longer,  and  drop  us  out  of 
their  thoughts.  After  all,  it  is  a  solemn  tie  to 
fight  with  death  together,  as  you  and  I  have  done. 
We  will  not  break  it  flippantly.  Believe  me,  that 
I  shall  —  remember  you.  And  some  time,  when 
you  have  righted  all  this  little  delusion  about  me, 
—  somewhere,  perhaps,  —  we  may  meet  on  fairer 
ground,  when  our  views  of  one  another  would  not, 
could  not,  be  subject  to  this  law  of  refraction 
which  acts  upon  them  now.  You  do  not  love  me. 
You  have  needed  me.  I  have  been  useful  to  you ; 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  213 

I  have  occupied  your  thoughts.  You  may  miss 
me.  But  that  is  not  love.  Go  home,  and  find  it 
out.  Get  well,  and  find  it  out." 

While  Doctor  Zay  was  speaking,  an  increasing 
calmness  had  settled  upon  Yorke's  face.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  could  see  the  tide,  for  whose  ebb 
she  had  watched,  turning  in  his  soul.  She  felt 
that  it  was  her  duty  to  welcome  it,  as  it  had  been 
her  fate  to  foresee  it.  He  still  sat  with  his  hand 
above  his  eyes,  which  he  had  not  once  removed 
from  her.  He  roused  himself,  and  confusedly 
said, — 

"  You  may  be  right,  for  aught  I  know.  I  will 
go,  as  you  bid  me  ;  and  thank  you,  as  you  sug 
gest,  whenever  I  can.  I  am  able  even  now  to  ap 
preciate  your  position.  You  are  the  only  woman 
I  ever  saw  who  was  able  to  save  a  man  from  him 
self  ! " 

He  took  her  hand  with  more  self-control  than 
he  had  shown  for  many  days ;  and  they  parted, 
heavily  and  silently. 

He  went  by  the  Monday's  boat.  Mr.  Butter- 
well  drove  him  to  Jonesboro'  on  Sunday.  Doctor 
Zay  had  been  out  all  night,  and  most  of  the  day. 
She  was  lying  on  the  parlor  sofa  when  he  went  to 
say  good-by.  She  had  flung  herself  down,  ex 
hausted,  craving  five  minutes'  rest.  She  had  on 


214  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

that  white  linen  dress,  and  the  vari-colored  afghan 
over  her  feet.  It  was  a  sultry  August  day,  but 
her  hand  was  cold ;  he  had  often  noticed  that  it 
was  so  after  she  had  been  up  all  night.  She  rose 
when  she  saw  him,  and  asked  if  he  found  the 
package  of  medicine,  with  the  directions,  and  if 
he  understood  them  all.  He  thanked  her,  and 
said  they  were  quite  clear.  Her  face  had  its 
stolid  look.  He  searched  in  vain  for  its  beautiful 
sensitiveness. 

"  I  shall  write  to  you,"  he  said,  hesitating,  "  if 
I  may." 

"  Oh  yes.  Do,  by  all  means.  I  shall  wish,  to 
hear  all  about  the  journey,  and  its  effect  on  you. 
Tell  your  mother  if  I  had  had  two  weeks  more  I 
would  have  sent  you  back  in  better  condition." 

"  Or  worse,"  he  said,  impetuously.  She  put  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  and  smiled.  They  shook  hands. 
He  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  got  away. 

He  looked  back  through  the  little  oval  buggy 
window,  as  Mr.  Butterwell  drove  him  off.  Mrs. 
Butterwell  was  wiping  the  tears  off  her  black  silk 
dress.  Handy,  by  the  wood-pile,  very  large  as  to 
his  hat  and  bare  as  to  his  feet,  eloquently  confided 
his  emotions  to  the  sawdust  heap. 

The  phaeton  and  the  gray  pony  stood  at  the 
doctor's  gate.  She  did  not  come  out.  The  big 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  215 

sorrel  turned  the  post-office  corner,  and  Mr.  But- 
terwell  observed  that  there  was  a  fine  lobster  fac 
tory  on  the  road.  They  canned  'em.  Which  had 
the  worst  of  it,  the  consumer  or  the  lobster,  Mr. 
Butterwell  would  not  undertake  to  say. 

Half  a  mile  down  the  Jonesboro'  road,  Mr.  But 
terwell  reined  up. 

"  There  ain't  but  one  horse  in  these  parts  that 
can  overtake  the  sorrel,"  he  said,  leisurely.  "  I 
hear  the  pony  after  us." 

Yorke  looked  back  through  the  little  buggy  win 
dow.  The  gray  mare,  with  a  stiff  head  and  clean 
step,  was  close  behind  them.  Before  he  could  turn 
his  head,  the  doctor's  phaeton  overtook  the  buggy. 

"Mr.  Yorke  has  forgotten  his  brandy-flask," 
she  called,  cheerily.  *'  Mrs.  Butterwell  found  it 
out  in  the  nick  of  time.  You  might  have  missed 
it  on  the  boat."  She  stretched  her  hand  over 
the  wheel  with  the  wicker  traveling-flask,  which 
Yorke  took  stupidly.  He  forgot  to  thank  her. 
Their  eyes  met  for  a  moment.  She  flung  him  a 
bright,  light  smile,  turned  dexterously  in  the  nar 
row  road,  and  whirled  away.  He  leaned  out  of  the 
buggy  to  look  after  her.  All  he  saw  distinctly 
was  the  Scotch  plaid  shawl  folded  on  the  empty 
seat  beside  her. 


XII. 

IT  was  an  ill-tempered  December  day, — gray 
from  Passamaquoddy  to  Point  Judith  ;  grimmer  in 
the  State  of  Maine  than  in  any  other  privileged 
portion  of  the  proud  New  England  coast. 

"  We  allers  do  hev  everything  wuss  than  other 
folks,"  said  a  passenger  in  the  Bangor  mail-coach. 
"  Freeze  and  Prohibition,  mud  and  Fusion.  We  've 
got  one  of  the  constitooshuns  that  take  things. 
Like  my  boy.  He 's  had  the  measles  'n  the 
chicken-porx  and  the  mumps  and  the  nettle-rash, 
and  fell  in  love  with  his  school-marm  'n  got  re- 
ligion  and  lost  the  prize  for  elocootin'  all  in  one 
darned  year." 

A  passenger  from  Boston  laughed  at  this.  He 
had  not  laughed  before  since  they  left  Bangor,  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  the  thermometer 
eight  below,  and  the  storm-signals  flying  from  Kit- 
tery  to  Kitty  Hawk.  Of  all  places  where  it  might 
be  supposed  that  a  man  with  a  free  will  and  fore 
knowledge  absolute  of  his  especial  fate  would  not 
be  on  a  December  day,  the  Bangor  and  Sherman 
mail-stage  was  the  most  notable.  The  mud  of  for- 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  217 

gotten  seasons  and  un mentioned  regions,  splashed, 
tormented,  and  congealed,  adorned  the  rotund  yel 
low  body  and  black,  loose-jointed  top  of  the  vehi 
cle.  The  high  windows  were  opaque  with  the 
thick  brown  spatter.  The  laborious  wheels,  en 
crusted  with  frozen  clay,  had  given  place  to  gaunt 
runners,  that  "brought  up"  on  the  abundant  in 
equalities  of  the  road  with  a  kind  of  moral  ferocity, 
like  unpleasant  second  thoughts  or  good  resolutions 
after  moral  lapses.  The  driver  swore  at  his  horses, 
and  insulted  the  passengers  by  looking  perfectly 
comfortable  in  a  new  buffalo  coat.  Inside  the 
stage,  lunatic  gloom  and  the  chill  of  the  Glacial 
Period  descended  upon  the  unfortunate  travelers. 
The  straw  was  cold  and  thin.  The  blankets-  were 
icy  and  emaciated.  The  leather  seats  seemed  to 
have  absorbed  and  preserved  the  storms  of  winters, 
the  rheumatism  of  the  past,  the  sciatica  of  the  fut 
ure.  The  Boston  passenger,  though  protected  by 
his  individual  traveling  blanket  and  highly-becom 
ing  seal-bound  coat,  expressed  an  opinion  that  he 
was  freezing  to  the  cushions,  which  the  jocose  pas 
senger  honored  by  a  stare  and  the  comforting  ob 
servation,  — 

"  Why,  we  expect  to." 

This  pleasant  person  got  out,  about  four  o'clock, 
at  what  he  called  his  "  store,"  —  a  centre  of  trade 


218  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

at  some  uncertain  remove  from  the  metropolis  of 
East  Sherman,  —  and  the  traveler  from  Boston 
had  the  impressive  experience  of  finding  himself  . 
alone  in  the  stage  during  its  passage  through  that 
segment  of  the  Black  Forest  which  the  Bangor  and 
Sherman  route  embraced. 

He  looked  through  the  muddy  windows  upon 
the  ghastly  scenery  with  a  sense  of  repulsion  so 
active  that  it  fairly  kept  him  warm.  The  forest, 
through  which  the  Machias  stage-route  ran  nine 
awful  miles  unmet  by  a  human  habitation,  turned 
its  December  expression  upon  him  like  a  Medusa, 
before  which  the  bravest  pulse  must  petrify.  Twi 
light  and  the  storm  were  coming  on.  The  runners 
made  a  fine,  grating  sound,  like  a  badly-tuned 
stringed  instrument,  in  the  solidly-packed  snow. 
Darkness  already  had  its  lair  in  the  woods.  Ice 
encrusted  the  trunks  of  the  trees  and  the  fallen 
logs.  The  stripped  and  tossing  boughs  moaned  in 
the  rising  wind  with  an  incredibly  human  cry. 
The  leathery  leaves  that  clung  to  the  low  oaks 
rustled  as  the  stage  crept  by,  as  if  they  had  been 
watching  for  it.  It  was  too  late  to  hear  in  the 
distant  gloom  the  thud  of  the  wood-chopper's  axe. 
One  leisurely  and  lonely  rabbit,  white  against  the 
whiteness,  crossed  the  way  and  disappeared  in 
the  thicket.  All  the  shadows  on  the  snowy  road 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  219 

•were  blue.  The  light  that  struggled  from  the  sky 
was  gray.  The  drifts  were  freshly  blown  over 
and  deep,  and  the  horses  plunged  and  struggled  in 
them,  and  panted  up  the  little  hills.  In  the  for 
est  the  snow  lay  on  a  level  of  five  feet.  The  si 
lence  was  profound;  the  desolation  pathetic;  the 
cold  deadly.  It  was  like  the  corpse  of  a  world. 
The  ^vivid  face  of  the  young  man  in  the  fur- 
trimmed  coat  disappeared,  at  the  end  of  the  first 
mile,  from  the  mud-bespattered  stage  window. 
He  rolled  himself  up  to  the  throat  in  his  travel 
ing-rug,  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  let  the 
Black  Forest  severely  alone.  His  whole  soul  sank 
before  it.  He  thought  of  the  lives  barred  in  be 
hind  it,  bound  to  their  frozen  places  like  its  icicles. 
He  thought  of  the  delicate  nerve,  the  expectant 
possibility,  the  bourgeoning  nature  — 

"  Poor  girl !  "  he  said  aloud.  "  Poor  girl !  " 
It  seemed  that  he  felt  the  necessity  of  com 
manding  himself,  or  of  defending  himself  from  his 
own  thoughts  ;  for  after  a  few  moments'  surrender 
to  them  he  fumbled  in  his  pockets  for  letters,  and, 
selecting  one,  perused  it  with  a  studionsness  devoid 
of  curiosity,  which  implied  that  this  was  not  the 
first  or  second  reading.  This  done,  he  put  the  let 
ter  out  of  sight,  and,  leaning  forward  with  folded 
arms  upon  the  slippery  ledge  of  the  stage  window- 


220  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

sill,  stared  out  once  more  at  the  icy  forest,  with 
the  look  of  a  man  \vho  stood  readier  to  fight  his 
Gorgons  than  to  flee  them. 
Ihis  was  the  letter  :  — 

SHERMAN,  December  10th. 

MY  DEAR  ME.  YOKKE,  —  I  suppose  you  Ve  for 
gotten  us,  but  it  don't  follow.  We  talk  a  good 
deal  about  you,  and  should  feel  honored  if  yon 
would  visit  us.  I  should  be  pleased  to  see  you 
some  time  in  holidays,  for  it 's  as  much  as  your 
soul's  worth  to  stand  holidays  in  Sherman.  If  the 
Lord  had  had  to  be  born  in  Maine  at  this  time  of 
year  —  But  there !  Isaiah  says  I  'm  growing  pro 
fane  as  I  grow  old,  and  I  don't  know  as  he  's  far 
out.  The  Baptists  are  getting  up  a  tree  to  head 
off  ^purs.  They  are  depending  on  a  new  recipe 
for  a  gingerbread  donkey,  and  turkey-red  candy- 
bags.  Our  committee  have  sent  to  Bangor  for 
cheap  bon-bons,  to  spite  'em.  I  've  bought  some 
greens  of  a  peddler,  and  Doctor  asked  me  to  find 
something  suitable  for  her  to  give  the  cook.  (I  've 
had  three  since  you  were  here.)  The  peddler  was 
drunk,  and  the  cook  is  going  to  leave  next  week. 
This  is  the  extent  of  our  Christmas  news.  Doctor 
is  very  busy,  and  Isaiah  isn't  very  well.  He's  got 
sciatica.  He  talks  a  good  deal  about  your  uncle, 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  221 

and  the  estate,  and  you.  The  big  sorrel  is  dead. 
This  has  been  a  great  affliction  to  him.  It  would 
be  a  great  pleasure  to  him  to  tell  you  about  it. 
It  is  the  only  thing  that  has  happened  in  Sherman 
since  you  left.  I  hope  you  are  in  improved  health, 
and  that  I  have  not  made  too  bold  in  writing  you 
this  letter.  I  never  wrote  to  a  gentleman  before, 
unless  he  began  the  correspondence.  I  have  n't 
mentioned  it  to  Isaiah,  nor  to  any  of  the  folks. 
Wishing  to  be  respectfully  remembered  to  your 
mother,  I  am  truly  yours, 

SAEAH  J.  BUTTER  WELL. 

P.  S.  Doctor  has  had  the  diphtheria.  She 
caught  it  of  Molly  Paisley.  She  was  sick  enough 
for  a  week,  and  got  out  long  before  she  was  able. 
I  look  to  see  her  down  with  something  any  day. 
It 's  been  an  awfully  sickly  winter,  and  they  'vo 
worked  her  enough  to  kill  five  men  and  ten  min 
isters.  Dr.  Penhallow  's  been  here,  and  he  talked 
with  me  about  it.  He  said  she  was  carrying  it 
too  far.  He  was  very  anxious  about  her.  But 
nobody  can  manage  Doctor,  any  more  than  you 
can  a  blocking  snow-storm.  If  Providence  him 
self  undertook  to  manage  her,  he  'd  have  his  hands 
full. 

S.  J.  B. 


222  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

The  stage  had  wrestled  through  its  last  import 
ant  struggle,  known  to  the  passengers  as  the  "long 
drift,"  more  familiar  to  the  profane  driver  as  the 

"  d d  long  drift,"  and  the  Black  Forest  lay  at 

length  behind  the  traveler.  He  let  down  the  win 
dow  to  take  a  look  at  it,  as  they  turned  the  famil 
iar  corner  at  the  cross-roads,  made  immortal  by  an 
apple-blossom.  They  were  close  upon  the  still  un 
seen  village,  now,  and  the  night  came  down  fast. 
The  forest  rose,  a  tower  of  blackness,  like  a  per 
plexity  from  which  one  had  escaped.  He  could 
just  see  the  narrow  road,  winding  gray  and  snow- 
blown  through  ;  it  pierced  the  gloom  for  a  space, 
and  vanished  with  mysterious  suddenness.  There 
was  one  low  streak  of  coppery  yellow  in  the  sky, 
upon  which  the  storm  was  massing  heavily  in 
stratified  clouds.  The  protest  of  tlie  wind  in  the 
woocls  was  like  the  protest  of  the  sea.  A  few 
steely  flakes  had  already  begun  to  fall ;  they  cut 
the  faint  light  with  meagre  outlines,  as  if  tho 
very  snow  were  starved  in  this  famishing  place. 
They  struck  Yorke  in  the  face ;  he  shivered,  and 
put  up  the  window  impatiently.  As  he  did  so,  he 
heard  the  sudden  sound  of  sleigh-bells,  and  per 
ceived  that  some  one  was  passing  the  stage,  al 
most  within  his  hand's  reach.  The  sleigh  was  a 
low  cutter,  overflowing  with  yellow  fox-skins  and 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  223 

bright  woolen  robes.  The  horse  was  a  gray  pony, 
closely  blanketed.  The  driver  was  a  lady,  soli 
tary  and  young.  She  wore  a  cap  and  coat  of  seal, 
trimmed  with  leopard's  fur.  She  had  a  fine,  high 
color.  Her  strong  profile  was  cut  for  an  instant 
against  that  last  dash  of  yellow  in  the  sky,  before 
she  swept  by  and  vanished  in  the  now  implacable 
twilight.  She  had  nodded  to  the  driver  with  a 
smile,  as  she  passed  him, — one  of  those  warm, 
brilliant,  fatally  generous  smiles  that  an  abundant 
feminine  creature  bestows  anywhere,  and  takes  no 
thought  where  they  may  strike,  or  how.  The 
driver  touched  his  cap  with  his  whip.  His  pet 
oath  stuck  half-way  in  his  throat,  and  gurgled 
away  into  "  Evenin',  Doctor  !  "  as  he  yielded  the 
narrow  road  to  the  pony,  and  struggled  on  with 
unprecedented  meekness  into  the  silent,  frozen 
village  street. 

It  occurred  to  Waldo  Yorke,  leaning  back  there 
in  the  stage,  with  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  after  she 
had  swept  by,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
chatter  with  those  people  before  he  should  see  her. 
It  was  unbearable  now  that  there  should  be  any 
body  in  the  world  but  herself  and  him.  It  was  in 
credible.  What  man  could  have  believed  that  one 
look  would  undo  so  much,  would  do  so  much  ? 
She  seemed  to  have  sprung  on  him,  like  a  leopard- 


224  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

ess  indeed.  He  panted  for  breath,  and  thrust  his 
hand  out,  alone  there  in  the  dark  stage,  with  a 
motion  as  if  he  could  have  thrust  her  off  for  life's 
sake. 

The  driver  reined  up  at  the  post-office,  and  the 
passenger  got  out.  He  walked  over  to  the  Sher 
man  Hotel  and  called  for  supper,  and  tried  to  calm 
himself  by  a  smoke  in  the  dingy  office.  But  his 
cigar  disgusted  him,  and  he  threw  it  away.  He 
got  out  into  the  freezing  air  again  as  soon  as  pos 
sible,  and  walked  up  and  down,  for  a  while,  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  The  sidewalks  were  not 
broken  out ;  the  drifts  lay  even  with  the  fences ; 
there  were  no  street-lamps,  and  between  the  scat 
tered  houses  long  wastes  of  blackness  crouched. 
There  were  no  pedestrians.  Occasionally  a  sleigh 
tinkled  up  to  the  post-office ;  the  drivers  clapped 
their  ears  with  blue-mittened  hands,  and  crouched 
under  old  buffaloes  worn  to  the  skin. 

He  passed  the  town  hall,  where  a  sickly  hand 
bill  set  forth  that  the  celebrated  Adonita  Duella, 
the  only  female  child  drummer  in  the  world,  would 
perform  that  night,  and  could  be  seen  and  heard 
for  the  sum  of  twenty-five  cents. 

He  passed  the  Baptist  church,  where  the  vestry 
was  lighted  for  a  prayer-meeting,  and  a  trustful 
choir  were  pathetically  rehearsing  Hold  the  Fort, 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  225 

with  what  they  were  pleased  to  call  a  cabinet  or 
gan  and  a  soprano  who  cultivated  a  cold  upon  the 
lungs.  The  frost  was  as  thick  as  plush  npon  the 
windows  of  the  vestry. 

It  was  too  early  for  either  of  these  sources  of 
social  diversion  to  be  open  to  the  public.  Yorko 
met  no  one,  and  walked  as  slowly  as  he  could 
without  congealing,  stumbling  through  the  dark, 
over  the  drifted  road,  till  he  came  in  sight  of  Mr. 
Batter  well's  familiar  square  house.  He  came  first 
upon  the  doctor's  wing.  Lights  were  in  the  office, 
and  in  her  parlor.  The  reception-room  was  dark. 
Encouraged  by  this  to  think  that  the  office  hour 
was  either  over  —  it  used  to  be  over  by  seven 
o'clock  —  or  else  that  no  one  was  there,  he  pushed 
on,  and  softly  made  his  way  up  the  walk  and  to 
the  piazza,  where  he  paused.  It  was  now  snowing 
fast,  and  he  stood  in  the  whirl  and  wet,  over 
whelmed  by  a  hesitation  that  he  dared  neither 
disregard  nor  obey.  His  thoughts  at  that  moment, 
with  a  whimsical  irrelevance,  reverted  to  the  let 
ter  he  wrote  when  he  first  got  back  to  Nahant,  in 
which  he  had  asked  for  her  bill.  She  sent  it,  after 
a  scarcely  perceptible  delay.  He  thought  it  rather 
small,  but  dared  not  say  so.  She  had  not  written 
since.  Now,  after  a  few  moments'  reflection,  he 
softly  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  without  ring 

15 


226  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

ing.  There  was  no  furnace  in  the  house,  and  the 
entry  was  cold.  The  door  of  the  reception-room 
was  shut.  He  opened  this,  also,  without  knock 
ing,  and,  closing  it  quietly  behind  him,  stood  for 
a  minute  with  his  back  to  the  door.  She  was  not 
there,  or  she  did  not  hear  him.  There  was  a  soap- 
stone  stove  in  the  reception-room,  in  which  a  huge 
fire  burned  sturdily.  Plants  were  blossoming  some 
where,  and  he  perceived  that  there  must  be  carna 
tions  among  them.  The  office  door  and  the  door 
into  the  parlor  were  both  open ;  a  delicious,  even 
warmth,  summer-like  and  scented,  pervaded  all  the 
rooms.  He  stepped  on  into  the  office,  and  stood 
still.  The  snow  was  sprinkled  on  his  fur  collar 
and  black  hair  and  beard. 

"  Handy  ?  "  she  called  from  the  parlor,  in  that 
rapid  way  he  had  noticed  when  he  first  knew  her, 
and  which  he  had  come  to  associate  with  her  anx 
ious  or  wearied  moods.  "  Handy,  is  that  you  ? 
Come  here." 

Yorke  made  no  answer,  but  advanced  a  step  or 
two,  and  so  met  her  —  for,  startled  by  silence,  she 
had  risen  immediately  —  on  the  threshold  of  the 
inner  room. 

His  heart  leaped  to  see  that  she  lost  her  color. 
She  did,  indeed.  A  flash,  like  fear,  vibrated  across 
her  figure  and  upraised  face,  then  fell,  and  she  had 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  227 

herself  instantly.  She  held  up  both  hands  to  him 
and  drew  him  graciously  into  the  bright  warmth 
fo  the  room,  led  him  to  the  lamp  before  she  spoke, 
took  off  the  yellow  globe,  and  let  the  white  radi 
ance  full  on  his  face. 

"  You  are  well !  "  she  said,  exultantly.  "  You 
are  a  well  man !  " 

"  As  well  as  I  ever  was  in  my  life,  Doctor  Zay. 
And  stronger,  by  far.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

He  squared  his  fine  shoulders,  and  smiled. 

"  Yes,  I  see." 

Her  firm  eyes  lifted,  looked  at  him  piercingly, 
then  wandered,  wavered.  A  beautiful  mistiness 
overswept  them;  her  will,  like  a  drowning  thing, 
seemed  to  struggle  with  it ;  she  regarded  him 
through  it  fixedly ;  then  her  dark  lashes  dropped. 
She  turned  away,  not  without  embarrassment,  and 
motioned  him  to  a  chair. 

He  forgot  to  take  it,  but  stood  looking  at  her 
dizzily.  She  wore  something  brown,  a  dress  of 
heavy  cloth,  and  it  was  trimmed  with  leopard  fur, 
like  that  he  saw  in  the  sleigh.  She  did  not  re 
cover  her  composure.  She  was  like  a  beautiful 
wild  creature.  Her  splendid  color  and  fire  mocked 
him.  Who  was  he  that  he  should  think  to  tame 
her  ?  Yet,  should  a  man  let  go  his  hold  on  a 
moment  like  this  ?  By  the  beating  of  his'  own 


228  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

beai't,  he  knew  that  life  itself  might  never  yield 
him  such  another.  He  flung  his  whole  soul  into 
one  swift  venture. 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  "  I  am  too  strong,  now,  to  be 
denied.  I  have  come  back  for  you." 

"  Oh,  hush  !  "  she  cried.  She  had  a  tone  of 
fathomless  entreaty.  She  turned  from  him  pas 
sionately,  and  began  to  pace  the  room. 

He  saw  how  she  tried  to  regain  her  poise,  and 
he  saw  with  exultance  how  she  failed. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  with  a  low  laugh.  "That 
is  not  what  I  have  traveled  three  hundred  miles 
for.  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  I  surprised  you,  —  that 
I  took  you  off  your  guard  !  Don't  mind  it !  Why 
should  you  care  ?  Why  should  you  battle  so  ? 
Why  should  you  fight  me?  Tell  me  why." 

He  followed  her  with  an  imperious  step.  She 
came  to  a  halt,  midway  in  the  bright  room.  She 
lowered  her  head  and  craned  her  neck,  looking 
from  him  to  the  door,  as  if  she  would  take  flight, 
like  a  caged  thing.  He  stretched  his  hand  before 
her. 

"  Why  do  you  fear  me  so  ?  " 

"  I  fear  you  because  you  love  me." 

"  No,  that  is  not  it,"  he  said,  firmly.  "  You 
fear  me  because  you  love  me" 

He  thought,  for  the  moment,  that  he  had  lost 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  229 

her  forever  by  this  bold  detour.  She  seemed  to 
double  and  wheel,  and  elude  him.  She  drew  her 
self  up  in  her  old  way. 

"It  is  impossible  !  "  she  said,  haughtily. 

"  It  is  natural,"  he  said,  gently. 

"  You  do  not  understand  how  to  talk  to  a 
woman  !  "  blazed  Doctor  Zay.  "  It  is  presumptu 
ous.  It  is  unpardonable.  You  torture  her.  You 
;.re  rough.  You  have  no  right  "  — 

He  advanced  a  step  nearer  to  her. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are  !  "  he  said,  deliriously. 

She  turned  from  him,  and  walked  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  He  looked  across  the  warm, 
bright  width.  A  high  fire  was  flashing  in  the 
open  hearth.  She  stopped,  and  held  out  her 
hands  before  it ;  he  could  see  that  they  shook. 
She  stood  with  her  back  to  him.  He  could  hear 
the  storm  beating  on  the  windows,  as  if  it  were 
mad  to  enter  this  sacred,  sheltered  place,  where 
fate  had  thrown  them  together,  —  they  two  out 
of  the  wintry  world,  —  for  that  one  hour,  alone. 

He  advanced  towards  her,  with  resolute  rever 
ence,  and  spoke  her  name.  She  looked  over  her 
shoulder.  He  felt  that  she  defied  him,  soul  and 
body. 

"  I  have  assumed  a  great  deal,  I  know,"  lie 
said,  in  a  tone  from  which  the  last  cadence  of  self- 


230'  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

assertion  had  died  ;  "  it  is  in  your  power  to  cor 
rect  my  folly  and  deny  my  affirmation." 

She  turned  her  face  towards  the  fire  again,  be 
fore  which  her  averted  figure  stood  out  like  a 
splendid  silhouette.  This  silent  gesture  was  her 
only  answer. 

"  I  am  not  so  conceited  a  fellow  as  to  insist  that 
a  woman  loves  me,  against  her  denial,"  proceeded 
Yorke,  with  a  manly  timidity  that  well  became 
him  ;  "  and  I  have  been  rough,  I  know,  coming 
upon  you  so  suddenly,  and  taking  advantage  of 
your  natural  emotion.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  ungen 
erous  ;  no,  nor  unfair.  I  will  not  urge  you  any 
more  to-night,  if  you  would  rather  not.  Shall  I 
go  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  please,"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 

He  turned  to  obey  her,  but,  half  across  the  room, 
looked  hungrily  back. 

Then  he  saw  that  she  had  clasped  her  hands 
upon  the  mantel-piece,  and  that  her  strong  face 
had  sunk  till  it  was  buried  in  them.  She  started 
as  he  turned,  as  if  his  gaze  had  been  a  blow,  and 
shrank  before  him,  a  shaken  creature. 

Even  at  that  moment,  he  felt  more  a  sense  of 
awe  than  of  transport,  at  the  sight  of  her  royal 
overthrow.  He  was  beside  her  in  a  moment,  and 
gently  putting  his  own  hand  upon  her  cold,  clenched 
fingers  said,  — 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  231 

"  Dear,  is  it  true  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  afraid  —  it  is  —  true." 

"  And  why  should  you  be  afraid  of  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  fearful  thing  —  for  a  woman  to  — 
love  —  a  man  "... 

"It  does  n't  frighten  me."  He  held  out  his 
arms,  with  his  low,  glad  laugh.  "  Come,  and  see 
how  dreadful  it  is  !  Come  !  " 

But  she  shook  her  head,  and  both  her  firm  hands 
warned  him  off. 

"  I  have  lost  my  self-possession,"  she  pleaded. 
"  I  have  lost  —  myself.  Let  me  alone.  I  cannot 
talk  to  you  to-night.  Go,  and  don't  —  I  cannot 
bear  to  have  you  expect  anything.  I  entreat  you 
not  to  hope  for  anything.  It  will  be  so  hard  to 
make  you  understand  "... 

"  It  will,  indeed,"  cried  the  lover  joyously,  "  be 
hard  to  make  me  understand  anything  but  Eden, 
now  !  " 

But  he  spared  her  for  that  time,  and,  drunken 
with  hope,  went  out,  the  maddest,  gladdest,  most 
ignorant  man  that  faced  the  storm  that  night. 

He  waded  across  the  piazza,  where  the  snow 
was  now  drifting  high.  The  dead  stalk  of  a  hon 
eysuckle  clutched  at  him  feebly,  as  he  went  by. 
He  presented  himself  at  Mrs.  Butterwell's  door, 
and  bore  dreamily  the  little  domestic  whirl  which 


232  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

followed.  The  only  coherent  thought  he  had  was 
a  passionate  desire  to  be  alone.  Mrs.  Butter/well 
hastened  to  call  the  doctor,  but  he  said  he  had 
spoken  to  her  as  he  came  along.  Mr.  Butterwell 
began  at  once  to  give  him  the  particulars  relative 
to  the  last  hours  of  the  sorrel.  Mrs.  Butterwell 
bustled  about  blankets,  and  fires,  and  things.  She 
looked  a  great  way  off,  to  Yorke,  and  small ;  he 
heard  her  imperfectly,  and  had  to  ask  her  to  re 
peat  what  she  said.  He  seemed  to  be  floating,  a 
being  of  another  race,  from  another  planet,  high 
above  the  heads  of  these  old  married  people ;  in  a 
blinding  light,  at  a  perilous  height,  from  which 
he  regarded  them  with  a  beautiful  scorn. 

He  hastened  to  his  room,  under  plea  of  fatigue,  at 
the  first  pardonable  moment.  It  was  warm  there, 
and  still.  The  bed  had  been  moved  into  a  new 
place,  and  the  framed  certificate  was  gone.  The 
hair- cloth  sofa  was  there,  and  the  little  three-legged 
table  where  the  medicine  used  to  stand.  There  was 
a  great  fire  in  a  fat,  air-tight  stove.  He  wheeled 
up  the  black  sofa,  and  sat  down,  and  watched 
the  red  oblong  blocks  of  light  made  by  the  open 
damper  in  the  side  of  the  stove.  He  sat  there  a 
long  time.  Sleep  seemed  as  impossible  as  pain, 
and  connected  thought  as  foreign  as  fear.  He 
drifted  in  his  delirium.  He  had  no  future,  he 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  233 

knew  no  past.  She  loved  him.  He  reeled  before 
the  knowledge  of  it.  Possession  seemed  profanity. 

Where  was  her  peer  in  all  the  world  ?     And  she 

*»•.. 
chose    him !     With   closed  eves  he   repeated   the 

three  words,  She  loves  me,  as  he  might  have  dashed 
down  a  dangerous  wine,  of  which  he  had  already 
more  than  man  could  bear.  He  was  intoxicated 
with  her. 

He  got  through  the  next  day  as  best  he  might. 
His  host  and  hostess  brought  a  first  mortgage  upon 
him,  and  Doctor  Zay  was  hard  at  work.  She  was 
early  at  breakfast,  late  at  dinner,  and  apparently 
took  no  tea.  He  saw  her  once  struggling  through 
the  snow  to  give  an  order  to  Handy,  who  seemed 
to  have  added  a  number  at  his  hatter's  for  each 
degree  of  severity  in  the  thermometer.  Handy 
had  private  views,  which  no  man  could  fathom, 
relative  to  Mr.  Yorke's  unexpected  appearance ; 
but  they  were  not  of  a  nature  which  improved  his 
temper,  and,  under  the  present  climatic  conditions 
lie  was  denied  the  resources  of  the  sawdust  heap. 
Handy  wore  blue  mittens  and  a  red  tippet  tied 
over  his  ears.  He  drove  with  the  doctor  that  day, 
to  watch  the  pony,  who  was  uneasy  from  the  cold, 
in  her  extended  "  waits."  Doctor  Zay  was 
wrapped  in  her  furs,  and  had  long,  seal-skin 


234  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

gloves.  She  looked  a  trifle  pale.  Yovke  watched 
the  brave  girl  ride  away  into  the  deadly  weather. 
She  drove  slowly,  battling  with  the  unbroken  road. 
She  carried  a  shovel  to  cut  their  way  through 
drifts. 

In  the  evening,  as  soon  as  might  decently  be, 
he  went  to  her  rooms.  She  was  alone,  and  wel 
comed  him  with  unexpected  self-possession.  She 
had  a  feverish  flush  on  her  cheeks.  She  began 
to  talk  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  She  inquired 
about  his  health,  and  the  medical  items  of  his  re 
covery.  She  spoke  of  his  mother,  and  his  life  in 
Boston. 

Indulgently,  he  let  her  go  on.  He  experienced 
an  exquisite  delight  in  all  this  little  parrying  and 
playing  with  fate,  and  in  the  haughty  conscious 
ness  that  he  could  put  an  end  to  it  when  he  chose. 
He  occupied  himself  in  noticing  that  she  wore  a 
woolen  dress  of  a  ruby  color,  with  a  plush  jacket 
and  white  lace. 

"I  have  been  at  woxk  myself,  this  winter,"  he 
ventured  to  say.     "  Did  I  tell  you  ?  " 
"  No.     What  have  you  done  ?  " 
"  Sat  in  my  office  and  prayed  for  clients." 
"I  approve  of  that.     Did  n't  you  get  any  ?  " 
"  Oh  yes  ;  some  wills  and  leases,  and  that  kind 
of  thing.     Greatness  is  not  thrust  upon  me.     But 
I  've  sat  there." 


DOCTOR   ZAY. 

"  Go  on  sitting  there,"  said  Doctor  Zay,  with  a 
little  nod. 

"  Thank  you.     I  propose  to." 

She  colored,  and  was  silent. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  the  Christmas 
oratorio,"  began  Yorke  again;  "and  Salvini,  and 
the  Damnation  of  Faust,  —  it  was  given  twice. 
I  used  to  think  there  was  nobody  in  Boston  who 
enjoyed  Salvini  as  you  would.  Then  we  've  had 
unusually  good  opera.  I  must  tell  you  about  the 
pictures  some  time  ;  there  have  been  one  or  two 
really  excellent  exhibitions." 

"  Tell  me  now,"  said  she  hungrily,  leaning  her 
head  back  in  her  chair  and  closing  her  eyes. 

"  No,  not  now.  I  have  other  things  to  say. 
You  must  come  and  see  and  hear  for  yourself." 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  shall,"  she  said  simply. 

"  Confess  you  are  starving  in  this  snowdrift !  " 

"  A  little  hungry,  sometimes  ;  it  is  worse  in  the 
winter.  It  would  rest  me  to  hear  one  fine  or 
chestral  concert.  Do  you  remember  what  Irma 
said  ?  " 

"  Irma  who  ?  " 

"  Why,  in  '  On  the  Heights.'  '  I  want  nothing 
of  the  world  without,  but  some  good  music,  with 
a  full  orchestra.'  " 

"  You  shall   hear   a  hundred,"    murmured  he. 


236  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  It  is  fatuity  to  imprison  yourself  here,  —  it  is 
cruel.  I  can't  bear  it.  It  must  come  to  an  end 
as  soon  as  possible.  It  has  infuriated  me  all  win 
ter  to  think  of  you.  I  had  to  drive  you  out  of  my 
mind,  like  the  evil  one.  You  must  come  down 
from  your  heights  to  the  earth,  like  other  peeple." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Doctor  Zay,  "  when  some  of  my 
poor  women  here  are  better.  I  have  a  few  cases 
it  would  be  disloyal  to  leave  now.  But  perhaps, 
before  I  am  old,  I  may  move.  I  have  thought 
that  I  should  like  to  settle  in  Boston,  if  I  were 
sure  of  a  footing.  I  know  the  women  there,  in 
our  school.  Some  of  them  are  excellent ;  one  of 
them  is  eminent.  But  there  are  none  now  (there 
was  one,  but  she  died)  working  on  precisely  my 
basis.  Indeed,  there  are  very  few  men  who  stand 
just  where  I  do,  and  they  would  not  help  me  any. 
I  should  be  rather  alone." 

It  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  fine  uncon 
sciousness  of  these  words.  Yorke  looked  at  her 
with  amazement,  which  deepened  into  a  vague 
distress. 

"  We  are  not  thinking  of  the  same  things  at 
all !  "  he  said  suddenly. 

"  What  could  you  think  I  was  thinking  of  ?  " 
she  cried  hotly. 

"  And  what  could  you  think  I  was  thinking  of  ? 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  237 

What  does  a  man  think  of  when  he  loves  a 
woman  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  've  come  back  to  that  again,"  said 
Doctor  Za}r,  with  an  unnatural  because  feeble  ef 
fort  at  lightness.  But  she  pushed  back  her  chair, 
and  her  manner  instantaneously  underwent  a 
change.  Yorke  watched  her  for  some  moments 
in  guarded  silence. 

"  I  have  returned,"  he  said  at  length,  "  to  where 
we  left  off,  last  night.  Why  do  you  wish  to  make 
it  hard  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  insane,"  she  said,  "  to  let  you  get  to 
that  point.  I  ought  to  have  prevented  —  a  woman 
should  control  such  things.  I  do  not  know  what 
I  was  thinking  of." 

"  You  were  thinking  that  you  loved  me,"  he 
said  gravely. 

She  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  want  to  take  that  back  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  said  it." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  take  it  back?  " 

"  Alas,"  she  said,  below  her  quickening  breath, 
"  I  cannot !  It  is  too  late." 

"  You  admit  as  much  as  that  ?  It  was  not  a 
mood,  nor  a  —  but  you  are  not  capable  of  caprice. 
Then  you  have  admitted  everything,"  he  said  ec 
statically,  "  and  all  the  rest  is  clear." 


238  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

She  smiled  drearily.  "  Nothing  is  clear,  Mr. 
Yorke,  except  that  we  must  separate.  We  have 
both  of  us  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  a  man 
and  woman  who  love  each  other  and  cannot  marry, 
have  no  choice  but  to  turn  short  round,  and  follow 
different  roads.  You  and  I  are  such  a  man  and 
woman.  Let  us  bring  our  good  sense  to  the  thing, 
at  the  outset." 

"  I  am  desitute  of  power  to  see  why  we  should 
not  marry,"  said  Yorke,  with  a  sudden  faint  sink 
ing  at  the  heart.  She  was  without  the  tinseled 
tissue  of  coquetry.  He  knew  that  he  had  to  deal 
not  with  a  disguise,  but  a  conviction.  She  had  not 
that  indigence  of  nature  which  could  have  offered 
irreverence  either  to  his  feeling  or  her  own.  "  I 
told  you  long  ago,"  he  went  on,  "that  you  should 
not  be  expected  to  surrender  your  profession.  I 
should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  could  ask  it  of 
you.  I  am  proud  of  you.  I  feel  my  heart  leap 
over  everything  you  achieve.  It  is  as  if  I  had 
done  it  myself,  only  that  it  makes  me  happier,  it 
makes  me  prouder.  I  want  you  just  as  you  are, 
—  the  bravest  woman  I  ever  knew,  the  strongest 
woman  and  the  sweetest.  Do  you  think  I  would 
take  your  sweetness  without  your  strength  ?  I 
want  it  all.  I  want  you.  There  is  nothing  I  will 
not  do  to  make  you  feel  this,  to  make  it  easy,  to 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  239 

help  you  along.  I  could  help  you  a  very  little  in 
Boston.  That  has  been  a  comfort  to  me.  Why, 
what  kind  of  a  fellow  should  I  be,  if  I  could  ap 
proach  a  woman  like  you,  and  propose  to  drink 
down  her  power  and  preciousness  into  my  one  lit 
tle  thirsty  life,  —  absorb  her,  annihilate  her,  — 
and  offer  her  nothing  but  myself  in  exchange  for 
a  freedom  so  fine,  an  influence  so  important,  as 
yours  ?  I  shall  never  be  a  great  man,  but  I  am 
not  small  enough  for  that !  " 

She  had  listened  to  him  attentively,  and  now 
lifted  her  eyes,  which  seemed  again  to  retreat  from 
him  with  that  sacred  timidity. 

"  I  never  heard  a  man  talk  like  that  before," 
she  said  softly.  "  It  is  something  even  to  say  it. 
I  thank  you,  Mr.  Yorke.  Your  manliness  and  no 
bleness  only  make  it  — harder  —  for  me  "  —  Her 
voice  sank. 

"  Everything  should  be  done  to  make  the  sacri 
fice  as  light  as  it  can  be  made,"  urged  Yorke.  "  I 
have  thought  it  all  over  and  all  through.  I  know 
what  I  am  saying.  This  is  not  the  rhapsody  of  a 
lover  who  cannot  see  beyond  his  momentary  ec 
stasy.  I  offer  you  the  devotion  of  a  man  who  has 
belief  in  the  great  objects  of  your  life  ;  in  whom 
you  have  created  that  belief ;  to  whom  you  have 
become  —  Oh,  you  are  so  dear  to  me  !  "  he  added 


240  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

brokenly,  "  I  cannot  think  of  life  without  you.  I 
never  knew  what  love  was  like  before.  I  never 
understood  that  a  woman  could  be  to  any  man 
what  you  are,  must  be,  to  me." 

While  he  .spoke  she  had  grown  very  pale,  and  it 
was  with  difficult  composure  that  she  said,  — 

"  Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Yorke  !  This  is  only  — 
hurting — us  both,  you  and  me  too,  to  no  whole 
some  end.  Hear  what  I  have  to  say,  and  then  we 
must  stop.  I  appreciate — oh,  believe  me!  — 
your  generosity,  and  the  loyalty  you  have  to  your 
own  feeling  for  me.  I  never  expected  to  find  it. 
I  did  not  suppose  you  were  capable  of  it.  I  grant 
you  that.  I  have  never  thought  but  that  you 
would  desire  the  woman  you  loved  to  be  like  other 
women,  to  give  up  everything.  I  have  trained 
myself  to  think  so,  all  along.  You  have  taken  me 
by  surprise,  I  admit.  You  are  more  of  a  man  than 
I  thought  you  were  "  — 

"  It  is  your  own  work,  if  I  am,"  he  interrupted, 
smiling  hopefully. 

"  But  you  do  not  know,"  she  proceeded  hastity, 
"  what  it  is  that  you  are  saying.  I  do.  You  and 
I  are  dreaming  a  dream.  It  has  a  waking,  and 
that  is  marriage.  Few  young  men  and  women 
know  anything  more  of  the  process  of  adjusting 
love  to  marriage  than  they  do  of  the  architecture 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  241 

of  Kubla  Khan's  palace.  I  have  had,  as  you  will 
see,  exceptional  opportunities  to  study  the  subject. 
I  have  profited  by  them.  Mr.  Yorke,  I  never  knew 
but  three  marriages  in  my  life  that  were  real  !  " 

"  So  you  told  me  once  before,"  he  said.  "  I 
never  forgot  it.  Ours  would  be  the  fourth." 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
"  You  do  not  understand.  You  have  not  had  my 
chances  to  see  how  it  is.  I  do  not  think  lightly 
of  these  things.  Next  to  the  love  between  man 
and  his  Creator  (if  there  is  such  a  thing,  and  I 
believe  we  must  admit  that  there  is),  the  love  of 
one  man  and  one  woman  is  the  loftiest  and  the 
most  illusive  ideal  that  has  been  set  before  the 
world.  ,  A  perfect  marriage  is  like  a  pure  heart : 
those  who  have  it  are  fit  to  see  God.  Any  other 
is  profanity  to  me ;  it  is  a  desecration  to  think  of. 
I  should  be  tortured.  It  would  kill  me  to  miss  it. 
It  is  a  matter  in  which  I  cannot  risk  anything,  or 
I  must  reduce  the  risk  to  a  minimum.  Oh,  women 
of  my  sort  are  thought  not  to  reverence  marriage, 
to  undervalue  it,  to  substitute  our  little  personal 
ambitions  for  all  that  blessedness  !  I  never  spoke 
of  these  things  before.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell 
you.  Oh,  it  is  we  who  know  the  worth  of  it !  — 
we  who  look  on  out  of  our  solitary  lives,  perhaps 
through  our  instructed  experience  and  trained 

16 


242  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

emotion.  We  will  not  —  I  will  not  have  any  hap 
piness  that  is  not  the  most  perfect  this  world  can 
give  me.  I  will  not  stoop  to  anything  I  can  fathom 
and  measure.  Love  should  be  like  a  mighty  sea. 
It  should  overflow  everything.  Nothing  should  be 
able  to  stand  before  it.  Love  is  a  miracle.  All 
laws  yield  to  it.  I  should  scorn  to  take  anything 
that  I  feared  for,  or  guarded,  —  to  look  on  and 
say,  At  such  a  time,  such  a  consequence  will  follow 
such  a  cause.  Then  he  will  feel  so  and  so.  And 
then  I  shall  suffer  this  and  that,  —  and  to  know, 
by  all  the  knowledge  my  life's  work  has  brought 
me,  that  it  would  all  come  as  I  foresaw,  — that  we 
should  ever  look  at  one  another  like  the  married 
people  I  have  known.  Oh,  I  have  watched  that 
bitterness  too  often !  I  know  all  the  steps,  —  I 
have  had  their  confidences.  You  don't  know  what 
things  people  tell  their  doctors.  I  have  heard  too 
much.  Years  ago,  I  said,  I  will  never  suffer  that 
descent." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  asked  Yorke  trying  to  speak 
with  a  courage  which  he  did  not  feel,  "  that  you 
took  a  vow  never  to  marry  at  all  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  with  her  ready  candor. 
"  I  am  not  one  of  those  women.  It  is  not  honest 
to  assume  that  there  is  any  perfect  life  without 
happiness.  It  is  idle  to  pretend  that  happiness 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  243 

and  loneliness  are  not  contradictory  terms.  I  have 
always  known  that  I  should  marry  if  the  miracle 
happened.  I  never  expected  it  to  happen.  I  put 
it  out  of  my  mind.  I  have  known  I  should  be  a 
solitary  woman.  I  am  prepared  for  it.  I  would 
rather  live  twenty  lonely  lives  than  to  suffer  that 
desecration, —  to  see  you  look  some  morning  as  if 
it  wearied  you.  I  have  seen  them  !  I  know  the 
look.  It  would  murder  me." 

"  The  miracle  has  happened  !  "  He  approached 
her  with  a  passionate  movement.  "  Trust  it." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  We  love  each  other,"  he  urged,  —  "  we  love 
each  other  !  " 

"  We  think  so,"  she  said  sadly.  "  You  think 
so.  But  you  do  not  know  what  it  all  means.  If 
I  had  been  like  the  other  women  —  Oh,  I  am 
sorry  you  have  wasted  all  this  feeling  on  me.  If 
it  had  been  some  lovely  girl,  who  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  adore  you,  —  who  could  give  you  every 
thing  "  — 

"  I  should  have  tired  of  her  in  six  weeks," 
said  Yorke. 

"  And  I  will  give  you  sixteen  to  tire  of  me !  " 
she  said  quickly.  But  when  she  saw  how  this 
wounded  him  she  was  sorry  she  had  said  it,  and 
hastened  to  add  more  calmly,  "  You  see,  Mr. 


244  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

Yorke,  you  have  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  become 
interested  in  a  new  kind  of  woman.  The  trouble 
is  that  a  happy  marriage  with  such  a  woman  de 
mands  a  new  type  of  man.  By  and  by  you  would 
chafe  under  this  transitional  position.  You  would 
come  home,  some  evening,  when  I  should  not  be 
there  (but  I  should  feel  worse  not  to  be  there  than 
you  would  to  miss  me).  You  would  need  me 
when  I  was  called  somewhere  urgently.  You 
would  reflect,  and  react,  and  waver,  and  then  it 
would  seem  to  you  that  you  were  neglected,  that 
you  were  wronged.  You  would  think  of  the  other 
men,  whose  wives  were  always  punctual  at  dinner 
in  long  dresses,  and  could  play  to  them  evenings, 
and  accept  invitations,  and  always  be  on  hand, 
like  the  kitten.  I  should  not  blame  you.  Some 
of  the  loveliest  women  in  the  world  are  like  that. 
I  should  like  somebody  myself  to  come  home  to, 
to  be  always  there  to  purr  about  me  ;  it  is  very 
natural  to  me  to  accept  the  devotion  of  such 
women.  There  was  one  who  wanted  to  come  down 
here  and  stay  with  me.  I  would  n't  let  her  ;  but  I 
wanted  her.  With  you  it  is  more  :  it  is  an  inher 
ited  instinct.  Generations  of  your  fathers  have 
bred  it  in  you.  You  would  not  know  how  to  .cul 
tivate  happiness  with  a  woman  who  had  diverged 
from  her  hereditary  type.  Happiness  must  be 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  245 

cultivated.  It  is  like  character.  It  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  safely  let  alone  for  a  moment,  or  it  will  run 
to  weeds.  It  would  slip  out  of  our  hands  like 
thistle-down,  and  I  should  be  made  to  feel  —  you 
would  feel,  and  your  mother  and  all  the  people 
you  had  been  taught  to  care  for  —  that  I  was  to 
blame ;  that  it  was  a  life-long  mistake  for  you  to 
have  married  a  woman  with  a  career,  who  had  any 
thing  else  to  do  but  be  your  wife  "  — 

"  My  mother,  of  all  women  I  know,  would  be 
the  first  to  uphold  you,"  interrupted  Yorke. 
"  She  believes  in  all  that  sort  of  thing  about 
women.  I  never  thought  of  it  till  this  minute. 
It  used  to  mortify  me  when  I  was  a  boy  ;  then  it 
only  bored  me.  I  shall  kiss  her  for  it  when  I  get 
home  !  You  need  not  give  a  second  thought  to 
my  mother.  She  has  never  got  over  what  you 
did  for  me  last  summer,  and  she  's  dying  to  see 
you,  in  any  capacity.  If  you  came  to  her  in  that 
of  a  daughter,  she  would  set  you  on  a  pinnacle, 
and  fall  down  and  worship  you." 

"  It  has  been  very  manly  in  you,"  said  Doctor 
Zay  musingly,  "  never  once  to  ask  me  to  give  up 
my  work.  I  shall  not  forget  it." 

"  I  never  thought  of  asking  it,"  said  Yorke. 
"  It 's  not  because  I  have  any  particular  theories, 
and  I  should  be  ashamed  to  let  you  credit  me  with 


246  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

any  sort  of  nobility  about  it.  I  don't  want  it  any 
other  way.  It  would  undo  everything.  It  would 
make  another  woman  of  you.  I  want  you  just  as 
you  are.  Come  !  "  he  said,  with  a  different  tone. 
He  leaned  above  her.  She  had  never  seen  such 
•wells  of  tenderness  in  any  man's  eyes.  She  tried 
to  look  into  them,  but  her  own  fell. 

"  You  make  it  so  hard  for  me  !  "  she  cried,  in  a 
quick,  anguished  tone. 

Then  Yorke  drew  back.  "  You  do  not  trust 
me,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  You  do  not  believe  that 
I  love  you." 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him  in  a  mute 
appeal. 

"  I  have  waited  on  your  caution  and  protest 
long  enough,"  he  went  on  excitedly.  "  I  went 
home  last  summer,  as  you  bade  me.  I  let  you 
think  I  thought  you  might  be  right.  I  let  you 
treat  my  love  like  a  fit  of  the  measles.  You  sup 
posed  I  was  going  away  to  convalesce  like  a  boy, 
and  establish  your  theory.  I  never  believed  it  for 
one  moment !  I  knew  all  the  time  that  what  you 
call  the  miracle  had  got  me.  It  has  got  you,  too, 
thank  Heaven  !  You  can't  escape  it.  You  can't 
help  it.  Try,  if  you  want  to.  I  '11  leave  you  to 
wprk  it  out.  A  man  can  stand  a  good  deal,  but 
there  comes  a  point  beyond  which  lie  must  retreat 
in  self-defense.  I  have  reached  that  point." 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  247 

He  turned  from  her,  glowing  with  swift  wrath. 
His  face  looked  as  if  it  were  carved  out  of  hot 
white  lava ;  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  it  would  cool  off 
in  that  color  and  expression,  and  remain  by  her 
forever,  like  a  medallion.  The  rare  tears  sprang 
to  her  burning  eyes.  She  felt  how  desolate  she 
was  to  be. 

At  the  door  he  paused,  and  looked,  relenting, 
back. 

"  How  tired  you  are !  "  he  said,  with  infinite 
tenderness.  "  I  would  have  rested  you,  poor 
girl!" 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  she  cried  piteously.  He  ap 
proached  her ;  she  motioned  with  her  warning 
hands.  He  stood  hesitating,  and  she  saw  how 
perplexed  and  tossed  he  was. 

"  If  you  had  truly  loved  me,"  he  said  savagely, 
"we  should  not  have  parted  in  this  way.  It 
would  not  have  been  possible  to  you.  You  could 
not  have  tortured  me  so.  You  would  have  trusted 
me.  You  would  have  risked  anything.  We  should 
have  taken  hold  of  our  problem  together.  Our 
love  would  have  carried  us  through  all  these  — 
little  things  —  you  talk  of.  I  have  over-estimated 
the  miracle,  — that  is  all." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking  she  glided  up 
to  him  ;  her  deep-colored  dress  and  waving  femi- 


248  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

nine  motions  gave  her  the  look  of  some  tall  velvet 
rose,  blown  by  the  wind.  She  put  both  her  hands 
in  his,  threw  her  head  back,  and  looked  at  him. 
For  that  one  moment  she  gave  her  soul  the  free 
dom  of  her  eyes. 

"  You  shall  know,"  she  whispered.  "  You  shall 
know,  for  this  once  !  .  .  .  Do  you  see  ?  " 

He  drew  away  one  hand,  and  covered  his  face. 

"  It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  — hurt  you  so. 
It  is  because  I  love  you  that  we  must  part  in  this 
•way.  It  is  for  your  sake  that  I  will  not  let  you 
make  a  life's  mistake.  Oh,  how  could  I  bear  it ! 
I  should  waste  myself  in  trying  to  make  you 
happy.  I  could  not  live  unless  I  made  you  the 
happiest  man  in  all  this  world,  —  no,  don't  inter 
rupt  me;  I  know  what  you  would  say  —  but  it 
would  not  be  so.  I  will  never  marry  a  man  un 
less  I  can  make  him  divinely  happy !  I  will  not 
wrong  him  so.  I  will  not  wrong  myself.  This  is 
right  that  I  am  doing.  I  am  accustomed  to  mak 
ing  difficult  choices  and  abiding  by  decisions.  It 
is  hard  at  first,  but  I  am  trained  to  it ;  I  know 
how  to  do  it.  Don't  worry  about  me ;  I  shall  get 
along.  Go,  now,  —  go  quickly  !  I  can't  bear  any 
more  —  of  this."  She  drew  back  from  him  by  a 
"subtle  movement,  and  gathered  herself  command- 
ingly.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  opened  bis  lips 
to  speak,  said  nothing,  obeyed  her,  and  went. 


XIII. 

HE  decided  not  to  see  her  again,  and  left  by  the 
morning  stage. 

When  he  had  got  back  to  Boston,  he  wrote  to 
her  what  he  thought  a  very  deep  letter.  She  an 
swered  it  by  a  beautifully  straightforward,  simple 
note,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  con 
cealed,  because  there  was  nothing  to  conceal. 

He  wrote  at  intervals  through  the  remainder  of 
the  winter;  she  answered  him  kindly.  He  tried 
to  keep  himself  informed  of  the  state  of  her  health, 
and  did  not  succeed  in  the  least.  She  inquired 
minutely  after  his.  Once  she  sent  him  a  prescrip 
tion  marked  ars,  2  m.,  for  an  influenza.  She  ex 
hibited  the  best  of  good  camaraderie,  and  was  rig 
orously  destitute  of  tenderness.  She  seemed  to 
have  accepted  a  certain  relation  of  kindliness  and 
frank  mutual  interest,  with  that  mysterious  facil 
ity  by  which  women  substitute  such  things  for  a 
passion.  He  was  far  more  disheartened  than  if 
she  had  intrenched  herelf  behind  a  significant  si 
lence. 

In  April  Mr.  Butterwell  had  occasion  to  write 


250  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

concerning  the  purchase,  in  Boston,  of  a  horse  to 
replace  the  sorrel.  Mrs.  Butterwell  added  a  post 
script.  She  said  that  the  doctor  was  growing  very 
peaked  and  had  gone  to  Bangor  on  a  week's  vaca 
tion,  visiting  a  college  classmate.  She  said  the 
doctor  had  done  a  terrible  winter's  work.  She 
said  she  hoped  the  Lord  knew  how  the  small-pox 
got  to  Sherman,  for  she  was  sure  she  did  n't.  She 
said  Dr.  Penhallow  had  gone  to  Europe. 

In  May  Mr.  Butterwell  wrote  again  to  say  that 
the  new  horse  was  satisfactory,  but  that  the  law 
yer  was  drunk  ;  and  if  Mr.  Yorke  felt  any  uneasi 
ness  about  his  uncle's  estate  — 

Mr.  Yorke  did  experience  great  uneasiness  about 
his  uncle's  estate.  He  took  the  first  boat  of  the 
season,  and  steamed  away  promptly  for  Machias. 
He  arrived  there  in  the  afternoon,  and  found  a 
horse  and  boy,  and  started  for  Sherman.  He 
reached  the  cross-roads  at  dusk,  dismissed  his 
driver,  and,  carrying  his  light  bag,  walked  as 
briskly  as  the  atrocious  state  of  the  roads  per 
mitted,  towards  the  village. 

In  going  by  a  little  group  of  lumbermen's  cot 
tages,  he  noticed  a  covered  buggy  standing  at  a 
ragged  gate. 

He  would  have  passed  it  without  a  second 
thought,  but  for  a  sudden  consciousness  that  the 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  251 

horse  was  an  acquaintance  whom  he  was  likely  to 
cut.  He  perceived  then  that  it  was  indeed  Old 
Oak.  He  looked  into  the  buggy  and  recognized 
the  blankets  and  fox-robe  ;  for  it  was  winter  still 
in  the  reluctant  Maine  May.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  he  got  into  the  buggy,  and  wrapped 
himself  up  in  the  robes,  and  waited. 

He  had  to  wait  a  long  time.  It  grew  dark. 
Several  people  passed,  but  no  one  noticed  him. 
Some  men  were  hanging  about  the  house,  and  a 
woman  or  two ;  they  seemed  to  be  neighbors. 
He  could  not  make  out  what  was  the  matter,  but 
inferred  that  these  good  people  had  some  source 
of  serious  excitement  connected  with  the  lumber 
man's  cottage.  He  asked  no  questions,  not  wish 
ing  to  be  seen.  Now  and  then,  he  thought  he 
heard  cries  in  the  cottage. 

It  might  have  been  half  an  hour,  it  might  have 
been  more ;  but  she  came  out  at  last.  She  had  ou 
a  brown  felt  hat,  with  a  long  feather.  She  walked 
fast,  nodding  to  the  loafers,  and  speaking  curtly  ; 
and,  coming  up,  swung  herself  into  the  buggy,  in 
her  supple  way.  She  had  sat  down  beside  him, 
and  begun  to  tug  at  the  robes,  before  she  saw  that 
she  was  not  alone  in  the  dark  carriage. 

"  Don't  let  me  startle  you,"  said  Yorke. 

She  sat  quite  still,  half  leaning  forward,  for  an 


252  DOCTOR   ZAY. 

instant ;  then  sank  back.  She  did  not  speak,  nor 
take  the  reins.  He  perceived  that  she  trembled 
from  head  to  foot. 

"  I  have  done  wrong  !  "  he  cried  remorsefully. 

"  I  did  not  —  expect  —  to  see  you,"  she  panted. 
"  I  was  not  quite  myself.  I  have  been  going 
through  a  terrible  scene.  Where  are  the  reins  ?  " 

"  I  have  them.  I  shall  keep  them,  by  your 
leave."  He  touched  Old  Oak,  and  they  started 
off  slowly,  plunging  through  the  deep  spring  mud. 

"  You  will  upset  us  in  this  quagmire,"  she  com 
plained.  "  I  know  every  stone  and  hole.  Give 
me  the  reins." 

He  did  so,  without  comment.  She  drove  stead 
ily,  but  feebly.  She  began  to  talk  at  once. 

"  There  's  a  man  in  that  house  in  delirium  tre- 
mens.  It  is  the  worst  case  I  ever  had.  They 
called  me  at  three  o'clock.  I  've  just  got  him 
quiet.  He  was  firing  a  revolver  all  over  the  house 
when  I  went." 

Yorke  uttered  a  smothered  cry. 

"  At  everything  and  everybody,"  said  Doctor 
Zay.  "  Ball  after  ball,  as  fast  as  he  could  pull  the 
trigger.  They  were  all  frightened.  Nobody  could 
do  anything.  I  —  He  is  all  right  now.  Nobody 
has  been  hurt.  I  got  it  away  from  him.  He  is 
asleep.  I  —  Mr.  Yorke  —  will  you  please  —  to 


DOCTOR   ZAY.  253 

take  —  the  reins  ?  "  She  sank  backwards,  and 
slowly  leaned  and  fell  against  the  buggy's  side. 
"  Don't  be  disturbed,"  she  gasped.  "I  shall  not 
faint.  I  never  did  —  in  my  life.  I  am  only  — 
out  of  breath.  I  shall  be  —  all  right —  soon." 

He  resolutely  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  got 
her  into  a  more  comfortable  position.  She  panted, 
and  was  very  pale,  but  had  herself  under  soldierly 
control.  He  saw  that  she  was  right ;  she  would 
not  faint. 

"  Either,  alone,  would  not  have  been  —  too 
much,"  she  said  apologetically.  "  But  both  to 
gether  —  to  find  you  —  and  then  I  was  up  all 
night  with  a  patient  who  suffered  horribly.  And 
I  have  n't  —  eaten  very  much  to-day.  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself  !  "  she  added,  in  a  stronger 
voice. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  had  a  buggy,"  observed  Yorke 
maliciously. 

"  Oh,  I  had  to,"  she  said  innocently.  "  Since 
the  diphtheria  my  throat  has  been  a  little  trouble 
some  —  and  these  cold  spring  winds  —  Thank 
you,  Mr.  Yorke,  I  am  quite  myself,  now.  I  can 
sit  up  alone." 

"  I  don't  think  you  can,"  he  said  decidedly. 

"Mr.  Yorke"  — 

"  Dear  ?  " 


254  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

«  Oli,  hush  !  " 

"  I  have  overtaken  Atalanta  this  time.  She 
stopped  for  a  leaden  apple,  —  for  a  revolver  ball, 
—  and  I  got  the  start.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  go 
ing  to  forego  my  advantage  so  soon  ?  Do  you 
think  you  are  going  to  send  me  off  again,  after  all 
we  have  gone  through  ?  Do  you  think  I  will  give 
you  up  to  your  pistols,  and  your  diphtheria,  and 
small-pox,  —  you  —  you,  —  my  darling,  my  poor, 
brave  lonely  girl  ?  Do  you  think  I  will  ever  leave 
this  accursed  State  of  Maine  again  without  you  ? 
You  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  man  you  're  deal 
ing  with,  then,  that 's  all,"  he  added,  by  way  of 
anti-climax.  But  his  heart  bounded  to  see  that 
she  did  not  protest  and  battle  ;  nor,  indeed,  did 
she  answer  him  just  then,  at  all.  She  was  worn 
out,  poor  girl. 

He  did  not  disturb  her  silence,  which  he  felt 
stealing  upon  himself  deliriously,  as  if  it  were 
the  first  fumes  from  the  incense  of  her  surrender. 
How  should  he  breathe  when  the  censer  swung 
close  ? 

"  Mr.  Yorke,"  at  last,  "  are  you  sure?" 

"  As  I  am  of  my  life." 

"  That  it  is  me  you  want,  —  a  strong-minded 
doctor?" 

"  A  sweet-hearted  woman  !     It  is  only  you." 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  255 

"  How  do  you  know  I  sha'n't  make  a  —  what 
was  it ?  —  '  cold,'  '  unnatural,'  '  unwomanly'  wife? 
How  can  you  expect  anything  else,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  a  woman  in  my  life  who  would  do 
as  much,  give  as  much,  to  make  a  man  happy  as 
you  woula,  —  as  you  will." 

"  I  wonder  how  you  dare  !  "  she  whispered. 

She  turned  her  neck,  with  a  reluctant  move 
ment,  to  look  at  him,  as  if  he  had  been  some  ob 
ject  of  fear. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  more  than  that." 

"  How  long  have  you  —  cared  —  for  me  ?  " 

"  From  the  very  first." 

She  sighed.  "  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much !  I 
can't.  It  took  me  some  time.  I  cared  most  about 
the  case,  till  you  got  better.  And  then  I  was  so 
busy!  But"  — 

"  But  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  could  make  up  for  that.  I  would  n't 
be"  — 

"  Don't  stop,"  rapturously.  "  What  would  n't 
you  be  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  be  outdone  in  any  such  way.  If 
we  ran  the  risk,  I  mean,  —  if  it  seemed  to  be  best 
for  you.  I  don't  believe  it  is  !  I  think  it  would 
be  the  worst  thing  that  could  happen  to  you. 
Why  don't  you  get  out  of  the  buggy,  and  go  back 
to  Boston  ?  What  did  you  come  here  for  ?  " 


256  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

"  To  look  after  my  uncle's  estate,  to  be  sure." 

"  Oh  !  .  .  .  You  must  be  very  anxious  about 
it?" 

"  I  am  very  anxious." 

The  buggy  lurched  and  lunged  remorselessly 
over  the  dark  and  swampy  road.  She  sat  erect 
and  white.  She  did  not  lean  against  anything. 
She  did  not  speak,  nor  turn  her  face  towards  him. 
He  dimly  felt  that  only  another  woman  could  un 
derstand  her  at  that  moment,  and  had  a  va^ue 

7  O 

jealousy  of  the  strong  withdrawal  which  nature 
had  set  between  her  strength  and  his  tenderness, 
as  if  he  found  a  rival  in  it. 

"  Dear,"  he  said  once  more,  with  that  lingering 
accent  on  the  word  which  gave  to  his  urgency 
more  the  force  and  calm  of  an  assured,  long-mar 
ried  love  than  of  a  crude  young  passion,  "  you 
told  me  that  love  was  like  a  mighty  sea.  It  has 
overflowed  everything.  Nothing  has  been  able  to 
stand  before  it.  It  is  a  miracle,  —  like  eternal 
life.  Dear,  are  you  ready  to  believe  in  the  mir 
acle  ?  " 

"  Be  patient  with  me,"  said  Doctor  Zay.  "  I 
have  a  scientific  mind.  The  supernatural  does  n't 
come  easily  to  it.  How  shall  I  begin  ?  " 

"  Say  after  me,  '  I  believe  in  the  life  everlast 
ing,'  —  that  means  my  love,  you  know.  I  want 
to  hear  you  say  it,  first  of  all." 


DOCTOR  ZAY.  257 

"  I  believe  —  in  —  you.     Will  that  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  try  to  make  it  do,"  said  Yorke. 

"  But  I  don't  believe  in  your  driving,"  observed 
the  doctor.  "  There  is  a  ditch  four  feet  and  a 
half  deep,  with  a  well  in  it,  off  the  right,  here. 
You  are  making  straight  for  it.  Give  me  the 
reins  !  If  you  don't  mind  —  please." 

"I  don't  care  who  has  the  reins,"  he  cried,  with 
a  boyish  laugh,  "  as  long  as  I  have  the  driver ! " 

They  had  got  home,  by  this,  though  neither 
perceived  it,  till  Old  Oak  stopped  in  the  delaying 
spring  twilight,  and  sighed  the  long  sigh  of  the 
virtuous  horse,  who  rests  from  his  labors,  aware 
that  his  oats  shall  follow  him.  Yorke  accompanied 
the  doctor,  without  hesitation,  to  her  own  rooms. 
She  experienced  some  surprise  at  this,  and  vaguely 
resented  his  manner,  which  was  that  of  a  man  who 
belonged  there,  and  who  intended  to  be  where  he 
belonged.  He  held  the  office  door  open  for  her  to 
pass  through,  and  then  shut  it  resolutely.  All  the 
scent  and  warmth  that  lie  remembered  were  in  the 
rooms.  In  the  uncertain  light  she  looked  tall  and 
far  from  him.  He  felt  that  all  her  nature  receded 
from  him  at  that  moment,,  with  the  accelerated 
force  of  a  gathering  wave. 

"  It  is  not  too  late,"  she  panted.  "  You  can 
save  yourself  from  this  great  risk.  You  can  go. 
17 


258  DOCTOR  ZAY. 

I  wish  you  would  go  !  This  is  not  like  simple 
happiness,  such  as  comes  to  other  people.  It  is  a 
problem  that  we  have  undertaken,  —  so  hard,  so 
long  !  No  light  feeling  can  solve  it ;  no  caprice  or 
selfishness  can  live  before  it.  If  we  fail,  we  shall 
be  the  most  miserable  people  that  ever  mistook  a 
little  attraction  for  a  great  love." 

"  And  if  we  succeed  "  —  he  began,  unabashed 
by  this  alarming  picture. 

She  gave  him  one  blinding  look. 

"  Come,"  said  Yorke,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
eyes.  "  You  have  had  your  way  long  enough.  My 
turn  has  come.  Has  n't  it  ?  Tell  me  !  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  asked  humbly. 

"  I  don't  want  to  feel  as  if  I  were  taking  a  sort 
of  —  advantage.  If  you  put  me  off  one  minute 
longer,  I  —  shall.  I  shall  take  all  I  can  get.  I 
shall  like  to  remember,  all  my  life,  that  you  came 
to  me  first,  of  your  own  accord;  that  you  loved 
me  so  much,  you  would  grant  me  this  —  little 
proof." 

He  held  out  his  arms. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  whispered.  With  a  swift 
and  splendid  motion  she  glided  across  the  little 
distance  that  lay  between  them. 


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